I 


M 


BERKELfY 

GENERAL 
LIIRARY 

UNIVERSITY    OF 
CALIFORNIA 


er 


DOWN   THE   PERIBONCA 


LITTLE    RIVERS 


$  QtJooS  of 

in  $rof  if  afif e  3&fene00 


BY 

HENRY  VAN  DYKE 


lAnd  suppose  he  take  nothing,  yet  he  enjoy eth  a 
delightfutt  -walk  by  pleasant  Rivers,  in  sweet 
Pastures,  amongst  odoriferous  Flowers,  "which 
gratifie  his  Senses,  and  delight  his  Mind;  which 
Contentments  induce  many  (who  affect  not  An 
gling)  to  choose  those  places  of  pleasure  for  their 
summer  Recreation  and  Health." 

COL.  ROBERT  VENABLES, 
The  Experienced  A  ngler.     1662. 


NEW  YORK 
CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S   SONS 

1895 


Copyright,  1895,  by 
Charles  Scribncr's  Sons. 


rs 


DEDICATION 

To  one  who  wanders  by  my  side 
As  cheerfully  as  waters  glide ; 
Whose  eyes  are  brown  as  woodland  streams, 
And  very  fair  and  full  of  dreams ; 
Whose  heart  is  like  a  mountain  spring, 
Whose  thoughts  like  merry  rivers  sing : 
To  her  —  my  little  daughter  Brooke  — 
1  dedicate  this  little  book. 


M842732 


CONTENTS 

I.  PRELUDE i 

II.  LITTLE  RIVERS 7 

III.  A  LEAF  OF  SPEARMINT 33 

IV.  AMPERSAND 59 

V.  A  HANDFUL  OF  HEATHER  81 

VI.  THE  RESTIGOUCHE  FROM  A  HORSE- YACHT  .  115 
VII.  ALPENROSEN  AND  GOAT'S-MILK       .       .       .141 

VIII.  Au  LARGE 181 

IX.  TROUT-FISHING  IN  THE  TRAUN       .       .       .  219 

X.  AT  THE  SIGN  OF  THE  BALSAM  BOUGH        .  245 

XI.  A  SONG  AFTER  SUNDOWN        ....  279 

INDEX 283 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 


TO  FACE 
PAGE 


DOWN  THE  PERIBONCA       ....       Frontispiece 

LIKE  A  MIRROR  FRAMED  IN  DAISIES         ....  12 

THE  WOODED  STILLWATERS  OF  THE  PENOBSCOT         .  18 

FLOATING  ON  THE  PLACID  CAM 24 

THE  TANGLE  OF  FALLEN  TREES 28 

JOE  LA  CROIX 5° 

THE  GOVERNOR 56 

TROUTING 64 

AN  ADIRONDACK  GUIDE 68 

AMPERSAND  LAKE 76 

IN  THE  PASS  OF  GLENCOE 84 

THE  LINN  OF  DEE 106 

THE  SALMON  LEAPS i32 

A  PICTURESQUE  WAY  OF  TRAVELING        .       .        .        .138 

SUMMIT  OF  THE  GROSS-VENEDIGER         ....  144 

MONTE  NUVOLAU,  AS  SEEN  FROM  THE  ALP  POCOL         .  160 

LAKE  MISURINA,  AND  THE  DREI  ZINNEN      ...  164 

THE  GROSS-VENEDIGER  FROM  INNER  GSCHLOSS      .       .  176 

SHELTER-HUT  ON  THE  GROSS-VENEDIGER     ...  178 

CRADLE  OF  THE  SAGUENAY 184 

THE  GRANDE  DECHARGE 19° 


Vlll  LIST    OF   ILLUSTRATIONS 

THE  VACHE  CAILLE  FALLS  .        .       .       .       •       •       .  198 

FISHING  IN  THE  FOAM 214 

ONE  OF  THE  SOURCES  OF  THE  TRAUN       ....  226 

THE  MAIN  STREET  OF  HALLSTATT 232 

THE  LAKE  OF  GOSAU  WITH  THE  DACHSTEIN    .        .       .  236 

THE  LAKE  OF  ST.  WOLFGANG 240 

"AND    EVERY   DAY   GO   FORTH   TO   FISH    ON    FOAMING 

STREAMS  FOR   OUANANICHE " 248 

MY  LADY  GREYGOWN 252 

.  "UNE  BELLE" 258 

THE  CAMP  ON  THE  ISLAND 271 


PRELUDE 


AN   ANGLER'S  WISH   IN  TOWN 


WHEN  tulips  bloom  in  Union  Square, 
And  timid  breaths  of  vernal  air 

Are  wandering  down  the  dusty  town, 
Like  children  lost  in  Vanity  Fair  ; 

When  every  long,  unlovely  row 
Of  westward  houses  seems  to  go 

Toward  sunset  skies  that  rest  the  eyes, 
And  hills  beyond,  where  green  trees  grow  ; 

Then  weary  is  the  street  parade, 
And  weary  books,  and  weary  trade  : 
I  'm  only  wishing  to  go  a-fishing  ; 
For  this  the  month  of  May  was  made. 


I  guess  the  pussy-willows  now 
Are  creeping  out  on  every  bough 

Along  the  brook  ;  and  robins  look 
For  early  worms  behind  the  plough. 


AN  ANGLER'S   WISH  IN  TOWN 

The  thistle-birds  have  changed  their  dun 
For  yellow  coats  to  match  the  sun  ; 

And  in  the  same  array  of  flame 
The  Dandelion  Show  's  begun. 

The  flocks  of  young  anemones 

Are  dancing  round  the  budding  trees  : 

Who  can  help  wishing  to  go  a-fishing 
In  days  as  full  of  joy  as  these  ? 


I  think  the  meadow-lark's  clear  sound 
Leaks  upward  slowly  from  the  ground, 

While  on  the  wing  the  bluebirds  ring 
Their  wedding-bells  to  woods  around  : 

The  flirting  chewink  calls  his  dear 
Behind  the  bush  ;  and  very  near, 

Where  water  flows,  where  green  grass  grows, 
Song-sparrows  gently  sing,  "  Good  cheer  :  " 

And,  best  of  all,  through  twilight's  calm 
The  hermit-thrush  repeats  his  psalm  : 

How  much  I  'm  wishing  to  go  a-fishing 
In  days  so  sweet  with  music's  balm  ! 


*T  is  not  a  proud  desire  of  mine  ; 
I  ask  for  nothing  superfine  ; 

No  heavy  weight,  no  salmon  great, 
To  break  the  record,  or  my  line  : 


AN  ANGLER'S  WISH  IN  TOWN 

Only  an  idle  little  stream, 
Whose  amber  waters  softly  gleam, 

Where  I  may  wade,  through  woodland  shade, 
And  cast  the  fly,  and  loaf,  and  dream  : 

Only  a  trout  or  two,  to  dart 

From  foaming  pools,  and  try  my  art  : 

No  more  I  'm  wishing —  old-fashioned  fishing, 
And  just  a  day  on  Nature's  heart. 
5 


LITTLE  RIVERS 


There  V  no  music  like  a  little  river's.  It  plays  the  same  tune  (and 
that  'j  the  favourite)  over  and  over  again,  and  yet  does  not  weary  of  it 
like  men  fiddlers.  It  takes  the  mind  out  of  doors ;  and  though  we 
should  be  grateful  for  good  houses ;  there  is,  after  all,  no  house  like 
God's  out-of-doors.  A  nd  lastly,  sir,  it  quiets  a  man  down  like  saying 
his  prayers.'1'1  —  ROBERT  Louis  STEVENSON  :  Prince  Otto. 


•r 


LITTLE    RIVERS 

A  EIVER  is  the  most  human  and  companion 
able  of  all  inanimate  things.  It  has  a  life,  a 
character,  a  voice  of  its  own,  and  is  as  full  of 
good  fellowship  as  a  sugar-maple  is  of  sap.  It 
can  talk  in  various  tones,  loud  or  low,  and  of 
many  subjects,  grave  and  gay.  Under  favour 
able  circumstances  it  will  even  make  a  shift  to 
sing,  not  in  a  fashion  that  can  be  reduced  to 
notes  and  set  down  in  black  and  white  on  a  sheet 
of  paper,  but  in  a  vague,  refreshing  manner,  and 
to  a  wandering  air  that  goes 

"  Over  the  hills  and  far  away." 

For  real  company  and  friendship,  there  is 
nothing  outside  of  the  animal  kingdom  that  is 
comparable  to  a  river. 

I  will  admit  that  a  very  good  case  can  be 
made  out  in  favour  of  some  other  objects  of  nat 
ural  affection.  For  example,  a  fair  apology  has 
been  offered  by  those  ambitious  persons  who 
have  fallen  in  love  with  the  sea.  But,  after  all, 
that  is  a  formless  and  disquieting  passion.  It 
9 


LITTLE  EIVEES 

lacks  solid  comfort  and  mutual  confidence.  The 
sea  is  too  big  for  loving,  and  too  uncertain.  It 
will  not  fit  into  our  thoughts.  It  has  no  per 
sonality  because  it  has  so  many.  It  is  a  salt 
abstraction.  You  might  as  well  think  of  lov 
ing  a  glittering  generality  like  "  the  American 
woman."  One  would  be  more  to  the  purpose. 

Mountains  are  more  satisfying  because  they 
are  more  individual.  It  is  possible  to  feel  a  very 
strong  attachment  for  a  certain  range  whose  out 
line  has  grown  familiar  to  our  eyes,  or  a  clear 
peak  that  has  looked  down,  day  after  day,  upon 
our  joys  and  sorrows,  moderating  our  passions 
with  its  calm  aspect.  We  come  back  from  our 
travels,  and  the  sight  of  such  a  well-known 
mountain  is  like  meeting  an  old  friend  un 
changed.  But  it  is  a  one-sided  affection.  The 
mountain  is  voiceless  and  imperturbable  ;  and  its 
very  loftiness  and  serenity  sometimes  make  us 
the  more  lonely. 

Trees  seem  to  come  closer  to  our  life.  They 
are  often  rooted  in  our  richest  feelings,  and  our 
sweetest  memories,  like  birds,  build  nests  in  their 
branches.  I  remember,  the  last  time  that  I  saw 
James  Russell  Lowell,  (only  a  few  weeks  before 
his  musical  voice  was  hushed,)  he  walked  out 
with  me  into  the  quiet  garden  at  Elm  wood  to 
say  good-bye.  There  was  a  great  horse-chestnut 
tree  beside  the  house,  towering  above  the  gable, 
10 


LITTLE  RIVERS 

and  covered  with  blossoms  from  base  to  sum 
mit,  —  a  pyramid  of  green  supporting  a  thousand 
smaller  pyramids  of  white.  The  poet  looked  up 
at  it  with  his  gray,  pain-furrowed  face,  and  laid 
his  trembling  hand  upon  the  trunk.  "  I  planted 
the  nut,"  said  he,  "  from  which  this  tree  grew. 
And  my  father  was  with  me  and  showed  me  how 
to  plant  it." 

Yes,  there  is  a  good  deal  to  be  said  in  behalf 
of  tree-worship;  and  when  I  recline  with  my 
friend  Tityrus  beneath  the  shade  of  his  favour 
ite  oak,  I  consent  in  his  devotions.  But  when  I 
invite  him  with  me  to  share  my  orisons,  or  wan 
der  alone  to  indulge  the  luxury  of  grateful,  un- 
laborious  thought,  my  feet  turn  not  to  a  tree, 
but  to  the  bank  of  a  river,  for  there  the  musings 
of  solitude  find  a  friendly  accompaniment,  and 
human  intercourse  is  purified  and  sweetened  by 
the  flowing,  murmuring  water.  It  is  by  a  river 
that  I  would  choose  to  make  love,  and  to  revive 
old  friendships,  and  to  play  with  the  children, 
and  to  confess  my  faults,  and  to  escape  from 
vain,  selfish  desires,  and  to  cleanse  my  mind 
from  all  the  false  and  foolish  things  that  mar 
the  joy  and  peace  of  living.  Like  David's  hart, 
I  pant  for  the  water-brooks,  and  would  follow 
the  advice  of  Seneca,  who  says,  "  Where  a  spring 
rises,  or  a  river  flows,  there  should  we  build 
altars  and  offer  sacrifices." 
11 


LITTLE  RIVERS 

The  personality  of  a  river  is  not  to  be  found 
in  its  water,  nor  in  its  bed,  nor  in  its  shore. 
Either  of  these  elements,  by  itself,  would  be 

nothing.      Confine   the   fluid   contents    of    the 
o 

noblest  stream  in  a  walled  channel  of  stone,  and 
it  ceases  to  be  a  stream;  it  becomes  what 
Charles  Lamb  calls  "a  mockery  of  a  river  — 
a  liquid  artifice  —  a  wretched  conduit."  But 
take  away  the  water  from  the  most  beautiful 
river-banks,  and  what  is  left?  An  ugly  road 
with  none  to  travel  it ;  a  long,  ghastly  scar  on 
the  bosom  of  the  earth. 

The  life  of  a  river,  like  that  of  a  human 
being,  consists  in  the  union  of  soul  and  body, 
the  water  and  the  banks.  They  belong  together. 
They  act  and  react  upon  each  other.  The 
stream  moulds  and  makes  the  shore ;  hollowing 
out  a  bay  here,  and  building  a  long  point  there  ; 
alluring  the  little  bushes  close  to  its  side,  and 
bending  the  tall  slim  trees  over  its  current; 
sweeping  a  rocky  ledge  clean  of  everything  but 
moss,  and  sending  a  still  lagoon  full  of  white 
arrow-heads  and  rosy  knot-weed  far  back  into 
the  meadow.  The  shore  guides  and  controls  the 
stream ;  now  detaining  and  now  advancing  it ; 
now  bending  it  in  a  hundred  sinuous  curves,  and 
now  speeding  it  straight  as  a  wild-bee  on  its 
homeward  flight ;  here  hiding  the  water  in  a  deep 
cleft  overhung  with  green  branches,  and  there 
12 


LITTLE  EIVEES 

spreading  it  out,  like  a  mirror  framed  in  daisies, 
to  reflect  the  sky  and  the  clouds;  sometimes 
breaking  it  with  sudden  turns  and  unexpected 
falls  into  a  foam  of  musical  laughter,  sometimes 
soothing  it  into  a  sleepy  motion  like  the  flow  of 
a  dream. 

And  is  it  otherwise  with  the  men  and  women 
whom  we  know  and  like  ?  Does  not  the  spirit 
influence  the  form,  and  the  form  affect  the 
spirit  ?  Can  we  divide  and  separate  them  in  our 
affections  ? 

I  am  no  friend  to  purely  psychological  attach 
ments.  In  some  unknown  future  they  may  be 
satisfying,  but  in  the  present  I  want  your  words 
and  your  voice,  with  your  thoughts,  your  looks 
and  your  gestures,  to  interpret  your  feelings. 
The  warm,  strong  grasp  of  Greatheart's  hand  is 
as  dear  to  me  as  the  steadfast  fashion  of  his 
friendships;  the  lively,  sparkling  eyes  of  the 
master  of  Rudder  Grange  charm  me  as  much  as 
the  nimbleiiess  of  his  fancy ;  and  the  firm  poise 
of  the  Hoosier  Schoolmaster's  shaggy  head  gives 
me  new  confidence  in  the  solidity  of  his  views 
of  life.  I  like  the  pure  tranquillity  of  Isabel's 
brow  as  well  as  her 

"  most  silver  flow 
Of  subtle-paced  counsel  iii  distress." 

The  soft  cadences  and  turns   in   my  lady  Ka- 

trina's  speech  draw  me  into  the  humour  of  her 

13 


LITTLE  RIVERS 

gentle  judgments  of  men  and  things.  The 
touches  of  quaintness  in  Angelica's  dress,  her 
folded  kerchief  and  smooth-parted  hair,  seem  to 
partake  of  herself,  and  enhance  my  admiration 
for  the  sweet  order  of  her  thoughts  and  her  old- 
fashioned  ideals  of  love  and  duty.  Even  so  the 
stream  and  its  channel  are  one  life,  and  I  cannot 
think  of  the  swift,  brown  flood  of  the  Batiscan 
without  its  shadowing  primeval  forests,  or  the 
crystalline  current  of  the  Boquet  without  its  beds 
of  pebbles  and  golden  sand  and  grassy  banks 
embroidered  with  flowers. 

Every  country  —  or  at  least  every  country 
that  is  fit  for  habitation  —  has  its  own  rivers  ; 
and  every  river  has  its  own  quality ;  and  it  is 
the  part  of  wisdom  to  know  and  love  as  many 
as  you  can,  seeing  each  in  the  fairest  possible 
light,  and  receiving  from  each  the  best  that  it 
has  to  give.  The  torrents  of  Norway  leap  down 
from  their  mountain  homes  with  plentiful  cata 
racts,  and  run  brief  but  glorious  races  to  the 
sea.  The  streams  of  England  move  smoothly 
through  green  fields  and  beside  ancient,  sleepy 
towns.  The  Scotch  rivers  brawl  through  the 
open  moorland  and  flash  along  steep  Highland 
glens.  The  rivers  of  the  Alps  are  born  in  icy 
caves,  from  which  they  issue  forth  with  furious, 
turbid  waters ;  but  when  their  anger  has  been 
forgotten  in  the  slumber  of  some  blue  lake,  they 
14 


LITTLE  EIVERS 

flow  down  more  softly  to  see  the  vineyards  of 
France  and  Italy,  the  gray  castles  of  Germany, 
and  the  verdant  meadows  of  Holland.  The 
mighty  rivers  of  the  West  roll  their  yellow  floods 
through  broad  valleys,  or  plunge  down  dark 
canons.  The  rivers  of  the  South  creep  under 
dim  arboreal  archways  heavy  with  banners  of 
waving  moss.  The  Delaware  and  the  Hudson 
and  the  Connecticut  are  the  children  of  the 
Catskills  and  the  Adirondacks  and  the  White 
Mountains,  cradled  among  the  forests  of  spruce 
and  hemlock,  playing  through  a  wild  woodland 
youth,  gathering  strength  from  numberless  tribu 
taries  to  bear  their  great  burdens  of  lumber 
and  turn  the  wheels  of  many  mills,  issuing  from 
the  hills  to  water  a  thousand  farms,  and  descend 
ing  at  last,  beside  new  cities,  to  the  ancient  sea. 

Every  river  that  flows  is  good,  and  has  some 
thing  worthy  to  be  loved.  But  those  that  we 
love  most  are  always  the  ones  that  we  have 
known  best,  —  the  stream  that  ran  before  our 
father's  door,  the  current  on  which  we  ventured 
our  first  boat  or  cast  our  first  fly,  the  brook  on 
whose  banks  we  first  picked  the  twinflower  of 
young  love.  However  far  we  may  travel,  we 
come  back  to  Naaman's  state  of  mind :  "  Are 
not  Abana  and  Pharpar,  rivers  of  Damascus, 
better  than  all  the  waters  of  Israel  ?  " 

It  is  with  rivers  as  it  is  with  people :  the 
15 


LITTLE  EIVEES 


greatest  are  not  always  the  most  agreeable, 
nor  the  best  to  live  with.  Diogenes  must  have 
been  an  uncomfortable  bedfellow :  Antinoiis 
was  bored  to  death  in  the  society  of  the  Em 
peror  Hadrian:  and  you  can  imagine  much 
better  company  for  a  walking-trip  than  Napo 
leon  Bonaparte.  Semiramis  was  a  lofty  queen, 
but  I  fancy  that  Ninus  had  more  than  one  bad 
quarter-of-an-hour  with  her :  and  in  "  the  spa 
cious  times  of  great  Elizabeth  "  there  was  many 
a  milkmaid  whom  the  wise  man  would  have 
chosen  for  his  friend,  before  the  royal  red- 
haired  virgin.  "  I  confess,"  says  the  poet  Cow- 
ley,  "  I  love  Littleness  almost  in  all  things.  A 
little  convenient  Estate,  a  little  chearful  House, 
a  little  Company,  and  a  very  little  Feast,  and  if 
I  were  ever  to  fall  in  Love  again,  (which  is 
a  great  Passion,  and  therefore,  I  hope,  I  have 
done  with  it,)  it  would  be,  I  think,  with  Pret- 
tiness,  rather  than  with  Majestical  Beauty.  I 
would  neither  wish  that  my  Mistress,  nor  my 
Fortune,  should  be  a  Bona  Roba,  as  Homer 
uses  to  describe  his  Beauties,  like  a  daughter  of 
great  Jupiter  for  the  stateliness  and  largeness  of 
her  Person,  but  as  Lucretius  says : 

*  Parvula,  pumilio,  Xapirwv  /Jo,  tola  merum  saZ.'" 

Now  in  talking  about  women  it  is  prudent  to 
disguise  a  prejudice  like  this,  in  the  security  of 
16 


LITTLE  EIVEES 

a  dead  language,  and  to  entrench  it  behind  a 
fortress  of  reputable  authority.  But  in  lowlier 
and  less  dangerous  matters,  such  as  we  are  now 
concerned  with,  one  may  dare  to  speak  in  plain 
English.  I  am  all  for  the  little  rivers.  Let 
those  who  will,  chant  in  heroic  verse  the  renown 
of  Amazon  and  Mississippi  and  Niagara,  but 
my  prose  shall  flow  —  or  straggle  along  at  such 
a  pace  as  the  prosaic  muse  may  grant  me  to 
attain  —  in  praise  of  Beaverkill  and  Never- 
sink  and  Swiftwater,  of  Saranac  and  Eaquette 
and  Ausable,  of  Allegash  and  Aroostook  and 
Moose  Kiver.  "  Whene'er  I  take  my  walks 
abroad,"  it  shall  be  to  trace  the  clear  Rauma 
from  its  rise  on  the  fjeld  to  its  rest  in  the 
fjord ;  or  to  follow  the  Ericht  and  the  Halla- 
dale  through  the  heather.  The  Ziller  and  the 
Salzach  shall  be  my  guides  through  the  Tyrol ; 
the  Rotha  and  the  Dove  shall  lead  me  into  the 
heart  of  England.  My  sacrificial  flames  shall 
be  kindled  with  birch-bark  along  the  wooded 
stillwaters  of  the  Penobscot  and  the  Peribonca, 
and  my  libations  drawn  from  the  pure  current 
of  the  Restigouche  and  the  Ampersand,  and  my 
altar  of  remembrance  shall  rise  upon  the  rocks 
beside  the  falls  of  Seboomok. 

I  will  set  my  affections  upon  rivers  that  are 
not  too  great  for  intimacy.     And  if  by  chance 
any  of  these  little  ones  have  also  become  famous, 
17 


LITTLE  RIVERS 

like  the  Tweed  and  the  Thames  and  the  Arno,  I 
at  least  will  praise  them,  because  they  are  still 
at  heart  little  rivers. 

If  an  open  fire  is,  as  Charles  Dudley  Warner 
says,  the  eye  of  a  room ;  then  surely  a  little 
river  may  be  called  the  mouth,  the  most  expres 
sive  feature,  of  a  landscape.  It  animates  and 
enlivens  the  whole  scene.  Even  a  railway  jour 
ney  becomes  tolerable  when  the  track  follows 
the  course  of  a  running  stream. 

What  charming  glimpses  you  catch  from  the 
window  as  the  train  winds  along  the  valley  of 
the  French  Broad  from  Asheville,  or  climbs  the 
southern  Catskills  beside  the  -ZEsopus,  or  slides 
down  the  Pusterthal  with  the  Rienz,  or  follows 
the  Glommen  and  the  Gula  from  Christiania  to 
Throndhjem.  Here  is  a  mill  with  its  dripping, 
lazy  wheel,  the  type  of  somnolent  industry ;  and 
there  is  a  white  cascade,  foaming  in  silent  pan 
tomime  as  the  train  clatters  by;  and  here  is  a 
long,  still  pool  with  the  cows  standing  knee-deep 
in  the  water  and  swinging  their  tails  in  calm 
indifference  to  the  passing  world ;  and  there  is 
a  lone  fisherman  sitting  upon  a  rock,  rapt  in 
contemplation  of  the  point  of  his  rod.  For  a 
moment  you  become  the  partner  of  his  tranquil 
enterprise.  You  turn  around,  you  crane  your 
neck  to  get  the  last  sight  of  his  motionless 
angle.  You  do  not  know  what  kind  of  fish  he 
18 


LITTLE  BIVERS 

expects  to  catch,  nor  what  species  of  bait  he  is 
using,  but  at  least  you  pray  that  he  may  have 
a  bite  before  the  train  swings  around  the  next 
curve.  And  if  perchance  your  wish  is  granted, 
and  you  see  him  gravely  draw  some  unknown, 
reluctant,  shining  reward  of  patience  from  the 
water,  you  feel  like  swinging  your  hat  from  the 
window  and  crying  out  "  Good  luck !  " 

Little  rivers  seem  to  have  the  indefinable 
quality  that  belongs  to  certain  people  in  the 
world,  —  the  power  of  drawing  attention  with 
out  courting  it,  the  faculty  of  exciting  interest 
by  their  very  presence  and  way  of  doing  things. 

The  most  fascinating  part  of  a  city  or  town 
is  that  through  which  the  water  flows.  Idlers 
always  choose  a  bridge  for  their  place  of  medi 
tation  when  they  can  get  it ;  and,  failing  that, 
you  will  find  them  sitting  on  the  edge  of  a  quay 
or  embankment,  with  their  feet  hanging  over  the 
water.  What  a  piquant  mingling  of  indolence 
and  vivacity  you  can  enjoy  by  the  river-side  ! 
The  best  point  of  view  in  Rome,  to  my  taste,  is 
the  Ponte  San  Angelo ;  and  in  Florence  or  Pisa 
I  never  tire  of  loafing  along  the  Lung'  Arno. 
You  do  not  know  London  until  you  have  seen  it 
from  the  Thames.  And  you  will  miss  the  charm 
of  Cambridge  unless  you  take  a  little  boat  and 
go  drifting  on  the  placid  Cam,  beneath  the  bend 
ing  trees,  along  the  backs  of  the  colleges. 
19 


LITTLE  EIVERS 

But  the  real  way  to  know  a  little  river  is  not 
to  glance  at  it  here  or  there  in  the  course  of  a 
hasty  journey,  nor  to  become  acquainted  with 
it  after  it  has  been  partly  civilized  and  partly 
spoiled  by  too  close  contact  with  the  works  of 
man.  You  must  go  to  its  native  haunts;  you 
must  see  it  in  youth  and  freedom;  you  must 
accommodate  yourself  to  its  pace,  and  give  your 
self  to  its  influence,  and  follow  its  meanderings 
whithersoever  they  may  lead  you. 

Now,  of  this  pleasant  pastime  there  are  three 
principal  forms.  You  may  go  as  a  walker,  tak 
ing  the  river-side  path,  or  making  a  way  for 
yourself  through  the  tangled  thickets  or  across 
the  open  meadows.  You  may  go  as  a  sailor, 
launching  your  light  canoe  011  the  swift  current 
and  committing  yourself  for  a  day,  or  a  week, 
or  a  month,  to  the  delightful  uncertainties  of 
a  voyage  through  the  forest.  You  may  go  as 
a  wader,  stepping  into  the  stream  and  going 
down  with  it,  through  rapids  and  shallows  and 
deeper  pools,  until  you  come  to  the  end  of  your 
courage  and  the  daylight.  Of  these  three  ways 
I  know  not  which  is  best.  But  in  all  of  them 
the  essential  thing  is  that  you  must  be  willing 
and  glad  to  be  led ;  you  must  take  the  little 
river  for  your  guide,  philosopher,  and  friend. 

And  what  a  good  guidance  it  gives  you.  How 
cheerfully  it  lures  you  on  into  the  secrets  of 
20 


LITTLE  EIVEES 

field  and  wood,  and  brings  you  acquainted  with 
the  birds  and  the  flowers.  The  stream  can  show 
you,  better  than  any  other  teacher,  how  nature 
works  her  enchantments  with  colour  and  music. 
Go  out  to  the  Beaver-kill 

"  In  the  tassel-time  of  spring1," 

and  follow  its  brimming  waters  through  the  bud 
ding  forests,  to  that  corner  which  we  call  the 
Painter's  Camp.  See  how  the  banks  are  all  en 
amelled  with  the  pale  hepatica,  the  painted  tril- 
lium,  and  the  delicate  pink-veined  spring  beauty. 
A  little  later  in  the  year,  when  the  ferns  are 
uncurling  their  long  fronds,  the  troops  of  blue 
and  white  violets  will  come  dancing  down  to 
the  edge  of  the  stream,  and  creep  venturously  out 
to  the  very  end  of  that  long,  moss-covered  log 
in  the  water.  Before  these  have  vanished,  the 
yellow  crow-foot  and  the  cinquefoil  will  appear, 
followed  by  the  star-grass  and  the  loose-strife 
and  the  golden  St.  John's-wort.  Then  the  un 
seen  painter  begins  to  mix  the  royal  colour  on 
his  palette,  and  the  red  of  the  bee-balm  catches 
your  eye.  If  you  are  lucky,  you  may  find,  in 
midsummer,  a  slender  fragrant  spike  of  the 
purple-fringed  orchis,  and  you  cannot  help  find 
ing  the  universal  self-heal.  Yellow  returns  in 
the  drooping  flowers  of  the  jewel-weed,  and  blue 
repeats  itself  in  the  trembling  hare-bells,  and 
21 


LITTLE  EIVEES 

scarlet  is  glorified  in  the  flaming  robe  of  the 
cardinal-flower.  Later  still,  the  summer  closes 
in  a  splendour  of  bloom,  with  gentians  and 
asters  and  goldenrod. 

You  never  get  so  close  to  the  birds  as  when 
you  are  wading  quietly  down  a  little  river,  cast 
ing  your  fly  deftly  under  the  branches  for  the 
wary  trout,  but  ever  on  the  lookout  for  all  the 
various  pleasant  things  that  nature  has  to  be 
stow  upon  you.  Here  you  shall  come  upon  the 
cat-bird  at  her  morning  bath,  and  hear  her  sing, 
in  a  clump  of  pussy-willows,  that  low,  tender, 
confidential  song  which  she  keeps  for  the  hours 
of  domestic  intimacy.  The  spotted  sandpiper 
will  run  along  the  stones  before  you,  crying, 
"  wet-feet,  wet-feet  !  "  and  bowing  and  teetering 
in  the  friendliest  manner,  as  if  to  show  you  the 
way  to  the  best  pools.  In  the  thick  branches 
of  the  hemlocks  that  stretch  across  the  stream, 
the  tiny  warblers,  dressed  in  a  hundred  colours, 
chirp  and  twitter  confidingly  above  your  head ; 
and  the  Maryland  yellow-throat,  flitting  through 
the  bushes  like  a  little  gleam  of  sunlight,  calls 
"  witchery,  witchery,  ivitchery  !  "  That  plain 
tive,  forsaken,  persistent  note,  never  ceasing, 
even  in  the  noonday  silence,  comes  from  the 
wood-pewee,  drooping  upon  the  bough  of  some 
high  tree,  and  complaining,  like  Mariana  in  the 
moated  grange,  "  weary,  weary,  weary  !  " 
22 


LITTLE  EIVEES 

When  the  stream  runs  out  into  the  old  clear 
ing,  or  down  through  the  pasture,  you  find  other 
and  livelier  birds,  —  the  robin,  with  his  sharp, 
saucy  call  and  breathless,  merry  warble ;  the 
bluebird,  with  his  notes  of  pure  gladness,  and 
the  oriole,  with  his  wild,  flexible  whistle ;  the 
chewink,  bustling  about  in  the  thicket,  talking 
to  his  sweetheart  in  French,  "  cherie,  cherie  !  " 
and  the  song-sparrow,  perched  on  his  favourite 
limb  of  a  young  maple,  close  beside  the  water, 
and  singing  happily,  through  sunshine  and 
through  rain.  This  is  the  true  bird  of  the 
brook,  after  all,  the  winged  spirit  of  cheerful 
ness  and  contentment,  the  patron  saint  of  little 
rivers,  the  fisherman's  friend.  He  seems  to 
enter  into  your  sport  with  his  good  wishes,  and 
for  an  hour  at  a  time,  while  you  are  trying  every 
fly  in  your  book,  from  a  black  gnat  to  a  white 
miller,  to  entice  the  crafty  old  trout  at  the  foot 
of  the  meadow-pool,  the  song-sparrow,  close 
above  you,  will  be  chanting  patience  and  en 
couragement.  And  when  at  last  success  crowns 
your  endeavour,  and  the  parti-coloured  prize  is 
glittering  in  your  net,  the  bird  on  the  bough 
breaks  out  in  an  ecstasy  of  congratulation : 
"  catch  'im,  catch  'im,  catch  9im  ;  oh,  what  a 
pretty  fellow  !  sweet  !  " 

There  are  other  birds  that  seem  to  have  a  very 
different  temper.  The  blue- jay  sits  high  up  in 
23 


LITTLE  EIVEES 

the  withered-pine  tree,  bobbing  up  and  down, 
and  calling  to  his  mate  in  a  tone  of  affected 
sweetness,  "  salute-her,  salute-her"  but  when 
you  come  in  sight  he  flies  away  with  a  harsh  cry 
of  "  thief i  thief,  thief!  "  The  kingfisher,  ruf 
fling  his  crest  in  solitary  pride  on  the  end  of  a 
dead  branch,  darts  down  the  stream  at  your 
approach,  winding  up  his  reel  angrily  as  if  he 
despised  you  for  interrupting  his  fishing.  And 
the  cat-bird,  that  sang  so  charmingly  while  she 
thought  herself  unobserved,  now  tries  to  scare 
you  away  by  screaming  "  make,  snake  !  " 

As  evening  draws  near,  and  the  light  beneath 
the  trees  grows  yellower,  and  the  air  is  full  of 
filmy  insects  out  for  their  last  dance,  the  voice 
of  the  little  river  becomes  louder  and  more  dis 
tinct.  The  true  poets  have  often  noticed  this 
apparent  increase  in  the  sound  of  flowing  waters 
at  nightfall.  Gray,  in  one  of  his  letters,  speaks 
of  "  hearing  the  murmur  of  many  waters  not  au 
dible  in  the  daytime."  Wordsworth  repeats  the 
same  thought  almost  in  the  same  words : 

"A  soft  and  lulling  sound  is  heard 
Of  streams  inaudible  by  day." 

And  Tennyson,  in  the  valley  of  Cauteretz,  tells 
of  the  river 

"  Deepening  his  voice  with  deepening  of  the  night." 

It  is   in  this   mystical  hour  that   you    will 
24 


Drifting  on  the  placid  Cam 


LITTLE  EIVEES 

hear  the  most  celestial  and  entrancing  of  all  bird- 
notes,  the  songs  of  the  thrushes,  —  the  hermit, 
and  the  wood-thrush,  and  the  veery.  Sometimes, 
but  not  often,  you  will  see  the  singers.  I  re 
member  once,  at  the  close  of  a  beautiful  day's 
fishing  on  the  Swiftwater,  I  came  out  just  after 
sunset  into  a  little  open  space  in  an  elbow  of 
the  stream.  It  was  still  early  spring,  and  the 
leaves  were  tiny.  On  the  top  of  a  small  sumac, 
not  thirty  feet  away  from  me,  sat  a  veery.  I 
could  see  the  pointed  spots  upon  his  breast,  the 
swelling  of  his  white  throat,  and  the  sparkle  of 
his  eyes,  as  he  poured  his  whole  heart  into  a 
long  liquid  chant,  the  clear  notes  rising  and 
falling,  echoing  and  interlacing  in  endless  curves 
of  sound, 

"  Orb  within  orb,  intricate,  wonderful." 

Other  bird-songs  can  be  translated  into  words, 
but  not  this.  There  is  no  interpretation.  It  is 
music,  —  as  Sidney  Lanier  defines  it,  — 

"  Love  in  search  of  a  word." 

But  it  is  not  only  to  the  real  life  of  birds 
and  flowers  that  the  little  rivers  introduce  you. 
They  lead  you  often  into  familiarity  with  human 
nature  in  undress,  rejoicing  in  the  liberty  of  old 
clothes,  or  of  none  at  all.  People  do  not  mince 
along  the  banks  of  streams  in  patent-leather 
shoes  or  crepitating  silks.  Corduroy  and  home- 
25 


LITTLE  EIVEES 

spun  and  flannel  are  the  stuffs  that  suit  this 
region ;  and  the  frequenters  of  these  paths  go 
their  natural  gaits,  in  calf-skin  or  rubber  boots, 
or  bare-footed.  The  girdle  of  conventionality  is 
laid  aside,  and  the  skirts  rise  with  the  spirits. 

A  stream  that  flows  through  a  country  of  up 
land  farms  will  show  you  many  a  pretty  bit  of 
genre  painting.  Here  is  the  laundry-pool  at  the 
foot  of  the  kitchen  garden,  and  the  tubs  are  set 
upon  a  few  planks  close  to  the  water,  and  the 
farmer's  daughters,  with  bare  arms  and  gowns 
tucked  up,  are  wringing  out  the  clothes.  Do 
you  remember  what  happened  to  Ealph  Peden  in 
The  Lilac  Sunbonnet  when  he  came  on  a  scene 
like  this?  He  tumbled  at  once  into  love  with 
Winsome  Charteris, —  and  far  over  his  head. 

And  what  a  pleasant  thing  it  is  to  see  a  little 
country  lad  riding  one  of  the  plough-horses  to 
water,  thumping  his  naked  heels  against  the  ribs 
of  his  stolid  steed,  and  pulling  hard  on  the  hal 
ter  as  if  it  were  the  bridle  of  Bucephalus !  Or 
perhaps  it  is  a  riotous  company  of  boys  that 
have  come  down  to  the  old  swimming-hole,  and 
are  now  splashing  and  gambolling  through  the 
water  like  a  drove  of  white  seals  very  much  sun 
burned.  You  had  hoped  to  catch  a  goodly 
trout  in  that  hole,  but  what  of  that  ?  The  sight 
of  a  harmless  hour  of  mirth  is  better  than  a  fish, 
any  day. 

26 


LITTLE  EIVEES 

Possibly  you  will  overtake  another  fisherman 
on  the  stream.  It  may  be  one  of  those  fabulous 
countrymen,  with  long  cedar  poles  and  bed-cord 
lines ;  who  are  commonly  reported  to  catch  such 
enormous  strings  of  fish,  but  who  rarely,  so  far 
as  my  observation  goes,  do  anything  more  than 
fill  their  pockets  with  fingerlings.  The  trained 
angler,  who  uses  the  finest  tackle,  and  drops  his 
fly  on  the  water  as  accurately  as  Henry  James 
places  a  word  in  a  story,  is  the  man  who  takes 
the  most  and  the  largest  fish  in  the  long  run. 
Perhaps  the  fisherman  ahead  of  you  is  such  an 
one,  —  a  man  whom  you  have  known  in  town  as 
a  lawyer  or  a  doctor,  a  merchant  or  a  preacher, 
going  about  his  business  in  the  hideous  respect 
ability  of  a  high  silk  hat  and  a  long  black  coat. 
How  good  it  is  to  see  him  now  in  the  freedom 
of  a  flannel  shirt  and  a  broad-brimmed  gray  felt 
with  flies  stuck  around  the  band. 

In  Professor  John  Wilson's  Essays  Critical 
and  Imaginative,  there  is  a  brilliant  description 
of  a  bishop  fishing,  which  I  am  sure  is  neither 
imaginative  nor  critical.  "  Thus  a  bishop,  sans 
wig  and  petticoat,  in  a  hairy  cap,  black  jacket, 
corduroy  breeches  and  leathern  leggins,  creel  on 
back  and  rod  in  hand,  sallyi"^  from  his  palace, 
impatient  to  reach  a  famous  salmon -cast  ere  the 
sun  leave  his  cloud,  .  .  .  appears  not  only  a 
pillar  of  his  church,  but  of  his  kind,  and  in  such 
27 


LITTLE  EIVEE8 

a  costume  is  manifestly  on  the  high  road  to  Can 
terbury  and  the  Kingdom-Come."  I  have  had 
the  good  luck  to  see  quite  a  number  of  bishops, 
parochial  and  diocesan,  in  that  style,  and  the 
vision  has  always  dissolved  my  doubts  in  regard 
to  the  validity  of  their  claim  to  the  true  apostolic 
succession. 

Men's  "  little  ways  "  are  usually  more  inter 
esting,  and  often  more  instructive  than  their 
grand  manners.  When  they  are  off  guard,  they 
frequently  show  to  better  advantage  than  when 
they  are  on  parade.  I  get  more  pleasure  out  of 
Boswell's  Johnson  than  I  do  out  of  Rasselas 
or  The  Rambler.  The  Little  Flowers  of  St. 
Francis  appear  to  me  far  more  precious  than 
the  most  learned  German  and  French  analyses 
of  his  character.  There  is  a  passage  in  Jona 
than  Edwards'  Personal  Narrative,  about  a  cer 
tain  walk  that  he  took  in  the  fields  near  his 
father's  house,  and  the  blossoming  of  the  flowers 
in  the  spring,  which  I  would  not  exchange  for 
the  whole  of  his  dissertation  On  the  Freedom 
of  the  Will.  And  the  very  best  thing  of 
Charles  Darwin's  that  I  know  is  a  bit  from  a 
letter  to  his  wife:  "At  last  I  fell  asleep,"  says 
he,  "  on  the  grass,  and  awoke  with  a  chorus  of 
birds  singing  around  me,  and  squirrels  running 
up  the  tree,  and  some  woodpeckers  laughing; 
and  it  was  as  pleasant  and  rural  a  scene  as  ever 
28 


LITTLE  RIVERS 

I  saw ;  and  I  did  not  care  one  penny  how  any 
of  the  birds  or  beasts  had  been  formed." 

Little  rivers  have  small  responsibilities.  They 
are  not  expected  to  bear  huge  navies  on  their 
breast  or  supply  a  hundred-thousand  horse-power 
to  the  factories  of  a  monstrous  town.  Neither 
do  you  come  to  them  hoping  to  draw  out  Levi 
athan  with  a  hook.  It  is  enough  if  they  run  a 
harmless,  amiable  course,  and  keep  the  groves 
and  fields  green  and  fresh  along  their  banks, 
and  offer  a  happy  alternation  of  nimble  rapids 
and  quiet  pools, 

"  With  here  and  there  a  lusty  trout, 
And  here  and  there  a  grayling-." 

When  you  set  out  to  explore  one  of  these 
minor  streams  in  your  canoe,  you  have  no  inten 
tion  of  epoch-making  discoveries,  or  thrilling 
and  world-famous  adventures.  You  float  placidly 
down  the  long  still  waters,  and  make  your  way 
patiently  through  the  tangle  of  fallen  trees  that 
block  the  stream,  and  run  the  smaller  falls,  and 
carry  your  boat  around  the  larger  ones,  with  no 
loftier  ambition  than  to  reach  a  good  camp 
ground  before  dark  and  to  pass  the  intervening 
hours  pleasantly,  "without  offence  to  God  or 
man."  It  is  an  agreeable  and  advantageous 
frame  of  mind  for  one  who  has  done  his  fail- 
share  of  work  in  the  world,  and  is  not  inclined 
to  grumble  at  his  wages.  There  are  few  moods 
29 


LITTLE  BIVEBS 

in  which  we  are  more  susceptible  of  gentle  in 
struction  ;  and  I  suspect  there  are  many  tem 
pers  and  attitudes,  often  called  virtuous,  in 
which  the  human  spirit  appears  less  tolerable  in 
the  sight  of  Heaven. 

It  is  not  required  of  every  man  and  woman 
to  be,  or  to  do,  something  great ;  most  of  us 
must  content  ourselves  with  taking  small  parts 
in  the  chorus,  as  far  as  possible  without  discord. 
Shall  we  have  no  little  lyrics  because  Homer 
and  Dante  have  written  epics  ?  And  because  we 
have  heard  the  great  organ  at  Freiburg,  shall 
the  sound  of  Kathi's  zither  in  the  alpine  hut 
please  us  no  more  ?  Even  those  who  have  great 
ness  thrust  upon  them  will  do  well  to  lay  the 
burden  down  now  and  then,  and  congratulate 
themselves  that  they  are  not  altogether  Answer 
able  for  the  conduct  of  the  universe,  or  at  least 
not  all  the  time.  "  I  reckon,"  said  a  cow-boy 
to  me  one  day,  as  we  were  riding  through  the 
Bad  Lands  of  Dakota,  "  there 's  some  one  bigger 
thali  me,  running  this  outfit.  He  can  'tend  to 
it  well  enough,  while  I  smoke  my  pipe  after  the 
round-up." 

There  is  such  a  thing  as  taking  ourselves 
and  the  world  too  seriously,  or  at  any  rate  too 
anxiously.  Half  of  the  secular  unrest  and  dis 
mal,  profane  sadness  of  modern  society  comes 
from  the  vain  idea  that  every  man  is  bound  to 
30 


LITTLE  EIVERS 

be  a  critic  of  life,  and  to  let  no  day  pass  with 
out  finding  some  fault  with  the  general  order  of 
things,  or  projecting  some  plan  for  its  improve 
ment.  And  the  other  half  comes  from  the 
greedy  notion  that  a  man's  life  does  consist, 
after  all,  in  the  abundance  of  the  things  that 
he  possesseth,  and  that  it  is  somehow  or  other 
more  respectable  and  pious  to  be  always  at  work 
making  a  larger  living,  than,  it  is  to  lie  on  your 
back  in  the  green  pastures  and  beside  the  still 
waters,  and  thank  God  that  you  are  alive. 

Come,  then,  my  gentle  reader,  (for  by  this 
time  you  see  that  this  chapter  is  only  a  preface 
in  disguise,  —  a  declaration  of  principles  or  the 
want  of  them,  an  apology  or  a  defence,  as  you 
choose  to  take  it,)  and  if  we  are  agreed,  let  us 
walk  together ;  but  if  not,  let  us  part  here  with 
out  ill-will. 

You  shall  not  be  deceived  in  this  book.  It 
is  nothing  but  a  handful  of  rustic  variations  on 
the  old  tune  of  "  Kest  and  be  thankful,"  a  rec 
ord  of  unconventional  travel,  a  pilgrim's  scrip 
with  a  few  bits  of  blue-sky  philosophy  in  it. 
There  is,  so  far  as  I  know,  very  little  useful  in 
formation  and  absolutely  no  criticism  of  the  uni 
verse  to  be  found  in  this  volume.  So  if  you 
are  what  Izaak  Walton  calls  "a  severe,  sour- 
complexioned  man,"  you  would  better  carry  it 
back  to  the  bookseller,  and  get  your  money 
31 


LITTLE  EIVEES 

again,  if  lie  will  give  it  to  you,  and  go  your  way 
rejoicing  after  your  own  melancholy  fashion. 

But  if  you  care  for  plain  pleasures,  and  in 
formal  company,  and  friendly  observations  on 
men  and  things,  (and  a  few  true  fish-stories,) 
then  perhaps  you  may  find  something  here  not 
unworthy  your  perusal.  And  so  I  wish  that 
your  winter  fire  may  burn  clear  and  bright 
while  you  read  these  pages ;  and  that  the  sum 
mer  days  may  be  fair,  and  the  fish  may  rise 
merrily  to  your  fly,  whenever  you  follow  one  of 
these  little  rivers. 

32 


A   LEAF  OF  SPEARMINT 
RECOLLECTIONS  OF  A  BOY  AND  A  ROD 


It  puzzles  me  now,  that  I  remember  all  these  young  impressions  so,  be 
cause  I  took  no  heed  of  them  at  the  time  whatever;  and  yet  they  come 
upon  me  bright,  when  nothing  else  is  evident  in  the  gray  fog  of  e  xperi- 
ence.  —  R.  D.  BLACKMORE:  Lorna  Doone. 


A   LEAF  OF  SPEARMINT 

OF  all  the  faculties  of  the  human  mind,  mem 
ory  is  the  one  that  is  most  easily  led  by  the  nose. 
There  is  a  secret  power  in  the  sense  of  smell 
which  draws  the  mind  backward  into  the  pleasant 
land  of  old  times. 

If  you  could  paint  a  picture  of  memory  in 
the  symbolical  manner  of  Quaiies's  Emblems  it 
should  represent  a  man  travelling  the  highway 
with  a  dusty  pack  upon  his  shoulders,  and  stoop 
ing  to  draw  in  a  long,  sweet  breath  from  the 
small,  deep-red,  golden-hearted  flowers  of  an  old- 
fashioned  rose-tree  straggling  through  the  fence 
of  a  neglected  garden.  Or  perhaps,  for  a  choice 
of  emblems,  you  would  better  take  a  yet  more 
homely  and  familiar  scent:  the  cool  fragrance 
of  lilacs  drifting  through  the  June  morning  from 
the  old  bush  that  stands  between  the  kitchen 
door  and  the  well ;  the  warm  layer  of  pungent, 
aromatic  air  that  floats  over  the  tansy-bed  in  a 
still  July  noon ;  the  drowsy  dew  of  odour  that 
falls  from  the  big  balm-of-Gilead  tree  by  the 
roadside  as  you  are  driving  homeward  through 
35 


A  LEAF  OF  SPEAEMINT 

the  twilight  of  August ;  or,  best  of  all,  the  clean, 
spicy,  unexpected,  unmistakable  smell  of  a  bed 
of  spearmint  —  that  is  the  bed  whereon  memory 
loves  to  lie  and  dream ! 

Why  not  choose  mint  as  the  symbol  of  re 
membrance?  It  is  the  true  spice -tree  of  our 
Northern  clime,  the  myrrh  and  frankincense  of 
the  land  of  lingering  snow.  When  its  perfume 
rises,  the  shrines  of  the  past  are  unveiled,  and 
the  magical  rites  of  reminiscence  begin. 


You  are  fishing  down  the  Swiftwater  in  the 
early  Spring.  In  a  shallow  pool,  which  the 
drought  of  summer  will  soon  change  into  dry 
land,  you  see  the  pale-green  shoots  of  a  little 
plant  thrusting  themselves  up  between  the  peb 
bles,  and  just  beginning  to  overtop  the  falling 
water.  You  pluck  a  leaf  of  it  as  you  turn  out 
of  the  stream  to  find  a  comfortable  place  for 
lunch,  and,  rolling  it  between  your  fingers  to  see 
whether  it  smells  like  a  good  salad  for  your 
bread  and  cheese,  you  discover  suddenly  that  it 
is  new  mint.  For  the  rest  of  that  day  you  are 
bewitched ;  you  follow  a  stream  that  runs  through 
the  country  of  Auld  Lang  Syne,  and  fill  your 
creel  with  the  recollections  of  a  boy  and  a  rod. 

And  yet,  strangely  enough,  you  cannot  recall 
the  boy  himself  at  all  distinctly.  There  is  only 
36 


A  LEAF  OF  SPEARMINT 

the  faintest  image  of  him  on  the  endless  roll  of 
films  that  has  been  wound  through  your  mental 
camera :  and  in  the  very  spots  where  his  small 
figure  should  appear,  it  seems  as  if  the  pictures 
were  always  light-struck.  Just  a  blur,  and  the 
dim  outline  of  a  new  cap,  or  a  well-beloved 
jacket  with  extra  pockets,  or  a  much-hated  pair 
of  copper-toed  shoes — that  is  all  you  can  see. 

But  the  people  that  the  boy  saw,  the  compan 
ions  who  helped  or  hindered  him  in  his  adven 
tures,  the  sublime  and  marvellous  scenes  among 
the  Catskills  and  the  Adirondacks  and  the  Green 
Mountains,  in  the  midst  of  which  he  lived  and 
moved  and  had  his  summer  holidays  —  all  these 
stand  out  sharp  and  clear,  as  the  "  Bab  Ballads  " 
say, 

"  Photographically  lined 
On  the  tablets  of  your  mind." 

And  most  vivid  do  these  scenes  and  people  be 
come  when  the  vague  and  irrecoverable  boy  who 
walks  among  them  carries  a  rod  over  his  shoul 
der,  and  you  detect  the  soft  bulginess  of  wet  fish 
about  his  clothing,  and  perhaps  the  tail  of  a  big 
one  emerging  from  his  pocket.  Then  it  seems 
almost  as  if  these  were  things  that  had  really 
happened,  and  of  which  you  yourself  were  a  great 
part. 

The   rod   was  a  reward,  yet   not   exactly   of 
merit.     It  was   an  instrument  of   education  in 
37 


A  LEAF  OF  SPEARMINT 

the  hand  of  a  father  less  indiscriminate  than 
Solomon,  who  chose  to  interpret  the  text  in  a 
new  way,  and  preferred  to  educate  his  child  by 
encouraging  him  in  pursuits  which  were  harm 
less  and  wholesome,  rather  than  by  chastising 
him  for  practices  which  would  likely  enough 
never  have  been  thought  of,  if  they  had  not  been 
forbidden.  The  boy  enjoyed  this  kind  of  father 
at  the  time,  and  later  he  came  to  understand, 
with  a  grateful  heart,  that  there  is  no  richer  in 
heritance  in  all  the  treasury  of  unearned  bless 
ings.  For,  after  all,  the  love,  the  patience,  the 
kindly  wisdom  of  a  grown  man  who  can  enter 
into  the  perplexities  and  turbulent  impulses  of 
a  boy's  heart,  and  give  him  cheerful  companion 
ship,  and  lead  him  on  by  free  and  joyful  ways 
to  know  and  choose  the  things  that  are  pure  and 
lovely  and  of  good  report,  make  as  fair  an  image 
as  we  can  find  of  that  loving,  patient  Wisdom 
which  must  be  above  us  all  if  any  good  is  to 
come  out  of  our  childish  race. 

Now  this  was  the  way  in  which  the  boy  came 
into  possession  of  his  undreaded  rod.  He  was 
by  nature  and  heredity  one  of  those  predestined 
anglers  whom  Izaak  Walton  tersely  describes  as 
"born  so."  His  earliest  passion  was  fishing. 
His  favourite  passage  in  Holy  Writ  was  that 
place  where  Simon  Peter  throws  a  line  into  the 
sea  and  pulls  out  a  great  fish  at  the  first  cast. 
38 


A  LEAF  OF  SPEARMINT 

But  hitherto  his  passion  had  been  indulged 
under  difficulties  —  with  improvised  apparatus  of 
cut  poles,  and  flabby  pieces  of  string,  and  bent 
pins,  which  always  failed  to  hold  the  biggest 
fish ;  or  perhaps  with  borrowed  tackle,  dangling 
a  fat  worm  in  vain  before  the  noses  of  the  star 
ing,  supercilious  sunfish  that  poised  themselves 
in  the  clear  water  around  the  Lake  House  dock 
at  Lake  George  ;  or,  at  best,  on  picnic  parties 
across  the  lake,  marred  by  the  humiliating  pres 
ence  of  nurses,  and  disturbed  by  the  obstinate 
refusal  of  old  Horace,  the  boatman,  to  believe 
that  the  boy  could  bait  his  own  hook,  but  some 
times  crowned  with  the  delight  of  bringing  home 
a  whole  basketful  of  yellow  perch  and  goggle- 
eyes.  Of  nobler  sport  with  game  fish,  like  the 
vaulting  salmon  and  the  merry,  pugnacious 
trout,  as  yet  the  boy  had  only  dreamed.  But 
he  had  heard  that  there  were  such  fish  in  the 
streams  that  flowed  down  from  the  mountains 
around  Lake  George,  and  he  was  at  the  happy 
age  when  he  could  believe  anything  —  if  it  was 
sufficiently  interesting. 

There  was  one  little  river,  and  only  one,  within 
his  knowledge  and  the  reach  of  his  short  legs. 
It  was  a  tiny,  lively  rivulet  that  came  out  of  the 
woods  about  half  a  mile  away  from  the  hotel, 
and  ran  down  eater-cornered  through  a  sloping 
meadow,  crossing  the  road  under  a  flat  bridge 
39 


A  LEAF  OF  SPEARMINT 

of  boards,  just  beyond  the  root-beer  shop  at  the 
lower  end  of  the  village.  It  seemed  large 
enough  to  the  boy,  and  he  had  long  had  his  eye 
upon  it  as  a  fitting  theatre  for  the  beginning  of 
a  real  angler's  life.  Those  rapids,  those  falls, 
those  deep,  whirling  pools  with  beautiful  foam 
on  them  like  soft,  white  custard,  were  they  not 
such  places  as  the  trout  loved  to  hide  in  ? 

You  can  see  the  long  hotel  piazza,  with  the 
gossipy  groups  of  wooden  chairs  standing  va 
cant  in  the  early  afternoon ;  for  the  grown-up 
people  are  dallying  with  the  ultimate  nuts  and 
raisins  of  their  mid-day  dinner.  A  villainous 
clatter  of  innumerable  little  vegetable-dishes 
comes  from  the  open  windows  of  the  pantry  as 
the  boy  steals  past  the  kitchen  end  of  the  house, 
with  Horace's  lightest  bamboo  pole  over  his 
shoulder,  and  a  little  brother  in  skirts  and  short 
white  stockings  tagging  along  behind  him. 

When  they  come  to  the  five-rail  fence  where 
the  brook  runs  out  of  the  field,  the  question  is, 
Over  or  under?  The  lowlier  method  seems 
safer  for  the  little  brother,  as  well  as  less  con 
spicuous  for  persons  who  desire  to  avoid  publicity 
until  their  enterprise  has  achieved  success.  So 
they  crawl  beneath  a  bend  in  the  lowest  rail,  — 
only  tearing  one  tiny  three-cornered  hole  in  a 
jacket,  and  making  some  juicy  green  stains  on 
the  white  stockings,  —  and  emerge  with  sup- 
40 


A  LEAF  OF  SPEARMINT 

pressed  excitement  in  the  field  of  the  cloth  of 
buttercups  and  daisies. 

What  an  afternoon  — how  endless  and  yet 
how  swift !  What  perilous  efforts  to  leap  across 
the  foaming  stream  at  its  narrowest  points  ;  what 
escapes  from  quagmires  and  possible  quick 
sands  ;  what  stealthy  creeping  through  the  grass 
to  the  edge  of  a  likely  pool,  and  cautious  drop 
ping  of  the  line  into  an  unseen  depth,  and  pa 
tient  waiting  for  a  bite,  until  the  restless  little 
brother,  prowling  about  below,  discovers  that 
the  hook  is  not  in  the  water  at  all,  but  lying  on 
top  of  a  dry  stone,  —  thereby  proving  that  pa 
tience  is  not  the  only  virtue  —  or,  at  least,  that 
it  does  a  better  business  when  it  has  a  small  vice 
of  impatience  in  partnership  with  it ! 

How  tired  the  adventurers  grow  as  the  day 
wears  away  ;  and  as  yet  they  have  taken  nothing  ! 
But  their  strength  and  courage  return  as  if  by 
magic  when  there  comes  a  surprising  twitch  at 
the  line  in  a  shallow,  unpromising  rapid,  and 
with  a  jerk  of  the  pole  a  small,  wiggling  fish  is 
whirled  through  the  air  and  landed  thirty  feet 
back  in  the  meadow. 

"  For  pity's  sake,  don't  lose  him  !  There  he 
is  among  the  roots  of  the  blue  flag." 

"  I  Ve  got  him !  How  cold  he  is  —  how  slip 
pery  —  how  pretty  !  Just  like  a  piece  of  rain 
bow!" 

41 


A  LEAF  OF  SPEARMINT 

"  Do  you  see  the  red  spots  ?  Did  you  notice 
how  gamy  he  was,  little  brother ;  how  he  played  ? 
It  is  a  trout,  for  sure ;  a  real  trout,  almost  as 
long  as  your  hand." 

So  the  two  lads  tramp  along  up  the  stream, 
chattering  as  if  there  were  no  rubric  of  silence 
in  the  angler's  code.  Presently  another  simple- 
minded  troutling  falls  a  victim  to  their  unpre 
meditated  art ;  and  they  begin  already,  being 
human,  to  wish  for  something  larger.  In  the 
very  last  pool  that  they  dare  attempt  —  a  dark 
hole  under  a  steep  bank,  where  the  brook  issues 
from  the  woods  —  the  boy  drags  out  the  hoped- 
for  prize,  a  splendid  trout,  longer  than  a  new 
lead-pencil.  But  he  feels  sure  that  there  must 
be  another,  even  larger,  in  the  same  place.  He 
swings  his  line  out  carefully  over  the  water,  and 
just  as  he  is  about  to  drop  it  in,  the  little  bro 
ther,  perched  on  the  sloping  brink,  slips  on  the 
smooth  pine-needles,  and  goes  sliddering  down 
into  the  pool  up  to  his  waist.  How  he  weeps 
with  dismay,  and  how  funnily  his  dress  sticks  to 
him  as  he  crawls  out !  But  his  grief  is  soon 
assuaged  by  the  privilege  of  carrying  the  trout 
strung  on  an  alder  twig;  and  it  is  a  happy, 
muddy,  proud  pair  of  urchins  that  climb  over 
the  fence  out  of  the  field  of  triumph  at  the  close 
of  the  day. 

What  does  the  father  say,  as  he  meets  them  in 
42 


A  LEAF  OF  SPEAEMINT 

the  road  ?  Is  he  frowning  or  smiling  under  that 
big  brown  beard?  You  cannot  be  quite  sure. 
But  one  thing  is  clear :  he  is  as  much  elated 
over  the  capture  of  the  real  trout  as  any  one. 
He  is  ready  to  deal  mildly  with  a  little  irregu 
larity  for  the  sake  of  encouraging  pluck  and 
perseverance.  Before  the  three  comrades  have 
reached  the  hotel,  the  boy  has  promised  faithfully 
never  to  take  his  little  brother  off  again  without 
asking  leave ;  and  the  father  has  promised  that 
the  boy  shall  have  a  real  jointed  fishing-rod  of 
his  own,  so  that  he  will  not  need  to  borrow  old 
Horace's  pole  any  more. 

At  breakfast  the  next  morning  the  family  are 
to  have  a  private  dish ;  not  an  every-day  affair 
of  vulgar,  bony  fish  that  nurses  can  catch,  but 
trout  —  three  of  them  !  But  the  boy  looks  up 
from  the  table  and  sees  the  adored  of  his  soul, 

Annie  V ,  sitting  at  the  other  end  of  the 

room,  and  faring  on  the  common  food  of  mortals. 
Shall  she  eat  the  ordinary  breakfast  while  he 
feasts  on  dainties?  Do  not  other  sportsmen 
send  their  spoils  to  the  ladies  whom  they  admire  ? 
The  waiter  must  bring  a  hot  plate,  and  take  this 

largest  trout  to  Miss  V (Miss  Annie,  not 

her  sister  —  make  no  mistake  about  it). 

The  face  of  Augustus  is  as  solemn  as  an 
ebony  idol  while  he  plays  his  part  of  Cupid's 
messenger.  The  fair  Annie  affects  surprise; 
43 


A  LEAF  OF  SPEAEMINT 

she  accepts  the  offering  rather  indifferently ; 
her  curls  drop  down  over  her  cheeks  to  cover 
some  small  confusion.  But  for  an  instant  the 
corner  of  her  eye  catches  the  boy's  sidelong 
glance,  and  she  nods  perceptibly,  whereupon  his 
mother  very  inconsiderately  calls  attention  to  the 
fact  that  yesterday's  escapade  has  sun-burned 
his  face  dreadfully. 

Beautiful  Annie  V ,  who,  among  all  the 

unripened  nymphs  that  played  at  hide-and-seek 
among  the  maples  on  the  hotel  lawn,  or  waded 
with  white  feet  along  the  yellow  beach  beyond 
the  point  of  pines,  flying  with  merry  shrieks 
into  the  woods  when  a  boat-load  of  boys  appeared 
suddenly  around  the  corner,  or  danced  the  lan 
cers  in  the  big,  bare  parlours  before  the  grown 
up  ball  began  —  who  in  all  that  joyous,  innocent 
bevy  could  be  compared  with  you  for  charm  or 
daring  ?  How  your  dark  eyes  sparkled,  and  how 
the  long  brown  ringlets  tossed  around  your  small 
head,  when  you  stood  up  that  evening,  slim  and 
straight,  and  taller  by  half  a  head  than  your 
companions,  in  the  lamp-lit  room  where  the  chil 
dren  were  playing  forfeits,  and  said,  "  There  is 
not  one  boy  here  that  dares  to  kiss  me!"  Then 
you  ran  out  on  the  dark  porch,  where  the  honey 
suckle  vines  grew  up  the  tall,  inane  Corinthian 
pillars. 

Did  you  blame  the  boy  for  following  ?    And 


A  LEAF  OF  SPEARMINT 

were  you  very  angry,  indeed,  about  what  hap 
pened, —  until  you  broke  out  laughing  at  his 
cravat,  which  had  slipped  around  behind  his  ear  ? 
That  was  the  first  time  he  ever  noticed  how 
much  sweeter  the  honeysuckle  smells  at  night 
than  in  the  day.  It  was  his  entrance  examina 
tion  in  the  school  of  nature  —  human  and  other 
wise.  He  felt  that  there  was  a  whole  continent 
of  newly  discovered  poetry  within  him,  and  wor 
shiped  his  Columbus  disguised  in  curls.  Your 
boy  is  your  true  idealist,  after  all,  although  (or 
perhaps  because)  he  is  still  uncivilized. 

ii. 

The  arrival  of  the  rod,  in  four  joints,  with  an 
extra  tip,  a  brass  reel,  and  the  other  luxuries  for 
which  a  true  angler  would  willingly  exchange  the 
necessaries  of  life,  marked  a  new  epoch  in  the 
boy's  career.  At  the  uplifting  of  that  wand,  as 
if  it  had  been  in  the  hand  of  another  Moses, 
the  waters  of  infancy  rolled  back,  and  the  way 
was  opened  into  the  promised  land,  whither  the 
tyrant  nurses,  with  all  their  proud  array  of 
baby-chariots,  could  not  follow.  The  way  was 
open,  but  not  by  any  means  dry.  One  of  the 
first  events  in  the  dispensation  of  the  rod  was 
the  purchase  of  a  pair  of  high  rubber  boots. 
Inserted  in  this  armour  of  modern  infantry, 
and  transfigured  with  delight,  the  boy  clumped 
45 


A  LEAF  OF  SPEAEMINT 

through  all  the  little  rivers  within  a  circuit  of 
ten  miles  from  Caldwell,  and  began  to  learn  by 
parental  example  the  yet  unmastered  art  of  com 
plete  angling. 

But  because  some  of  the  streams  were  deep 
and  strong,  and  his  legs  were  short  and  slender, 
and  his  ambition  was  even  taller  than  his  boots, 
the  father  would  sometimes  take  him  up  picka 
back,  and  wade  along  carefully  through  the  peri 
lous  places  —  which  are  often,  in  this  world,  the 
very  places  one  longs  to  fish  in.  So,  in  your  re 
membrance,  you  can  see  the  little  rubber  boots 
sticking  out  under  the  father's  arms,  and  the 
rod  projecting  over  his  head,  and  the  bait  dang 
ling  down  unsteadily  into  the  deep  holes,  and  the 
delighted  boy  hooking  and  playing  and  basket 
ing  his  trout  high  in  the  air.  How  many  of  our 
best  catches  in  life  are  made  from  some  one 
else's  shoulders ! 

From  this  summer  the  whole  earth  became  to 
the  boy,  as  Tennyson  describes  the  lotus  coun 
try,  "  a  land  of  streams."  In  school-days  and 
in  town  he  acknowledged  the  sway  of  those  mys 
terious  and  irresistible  forces  which  produce  tops 
at  one  season,  and  marbles  at  another,  and  kites 
at  another,  and  bind  all  boyish  hearts  to  play 
mumble-the-peg  at  the  due  time  more  certainly 
than  the  stars  are  bound  to  their  orbits.  But 
when  vacation  came,  with  its  annual  exodus  from 
46 


A  LEAF  OF  SPEARMINT 

the  city,  there  was  only  one  sign  in  the  zodiac, 
and  that  was  Pisces. 

No  country  seemed  to  him  tolerable  without 
trout,  and  no  landscape  beautiful  unless  enliv 
ened  by  a  young  river.  Among  what  delectable 
mountains  did  those  watery  guides  lead  his  va 
grant  steps,  and  with  what  curious,  mixed,  and 
sometimes  profitable  company  did  they  make 
him  familiar ! 

There  was  one  exquisite  stream  among  the 
Alleghanies,  called  Lycoming  Creek,  beside 
which  the  family  spent  a  summer  in  a  decadent 
inn,  kept  by  a  tremulous  landlord  who  was 
always  sitting  on  the  steps  of  the  porch,  and 
whose  most  memorable  remark  was  that  he  had 
"a  misery  in  his  stomach."  This  form  of 
speech  amused  the  boy,  but  he  did  not  in  the 
least  comprehend  it.  It  was  the  description  of 
an  unimaginable  experience  in  a  region  which 
was  as  yet  known  to  him  only  as  the  seat  of 
pleasure.  He  did  not  understand  how  any  one 
could  be  miserable  when  he  could  catch  trout 
from  his  own  dooryard. 

The  big  creek,  with  its  sharp  turns  from  side 
to  side  of  the  valley,  its  hemlock-shaded  falls 
in  the  gorge,  and  its  long,  still  reaches  in  the 
"  sugar-bottom,"  where  the  maple-trees  grew  as 
if  in  an  orchard,  and  the  superfluity  of  grass 
hoppers  made  the  trout  fat  and  dainty,  was  too 
47 


A  LEAF  OF  SPEARMINT 

wide  to  fit  the  boy.  But  nature  keeps  all  sizes 
in  her  stock,  and  a  smaller  stream,  called  Rocky 
Run,  came  tumbling  down  opposite  the  inn,  as 
if  made  to  order  for  juvenile  use. 

How  well  you  can  follow  it,  through  the  old 
pasture  overgrown  with  alders,  and  up  past  the 
broken-down  mill-dam  and  the  crumbling  sluice, 
into  the  mountain-cleft  from  which  it  leaps 
laughing  !  The  water,  except  just  after  a  rain 
storm,  is  as  transparent  as  glass  —  old-fashioned 
window-glass,  I  mean,  in  small  panes,  with  just 
a  tinge  of  green  in  it,  like  the  air  in  a  grove  of 
young  birches.  Twelve  feet  down  in  the  nar 
row  chasm  below  the  falls,  where  the  water  is 
full  of  tiny  bubbles,  like  Apollinaris,  you  can 
see  the  trout  poised,  with  their  heads  up-stream, 
motionless,  but  quivering  a  little,  as  if  they  were 
strung  on  wires. 

The  bed  of  the  stream  has  been  scooped  out 
of  the  solid  rock.  Here  and  there  banks  of 
sand  have  been  deposited,  and  accumulations  of 
loose  stone  disguise  the  real  nature  of  the  chan 
nel.  Great  boulders  have  been  rolled  down  the 
alleyway  and  left  where  they  chanced  to  stick  ; 
the  stream  must  get  around  them  or  under  them 
as  best  it  can.  But  there  are  other  places  where 
everything  has  been  swept  clean ;  nothing  re 
mains  but  the  primitive  strata,  and  the  flowing 
water  merrily  tickles  the  bare  ribs  of  mother 
48 


A  LEAF  OF  SPEAEMINT 

earth.  Whirling  stones,  in  the  spring  floods, 
have  cut  well-holes  in  the  rock,  as  round  and 
even  as  if  they  had  been  made  with  a  drill,  and 
sometimes  you  can  see  the  very  stone  that  sunk 
the  well  lying  at  the  bottom.  There  are  long, 
straight,  sloping  troughs  through  which  the  wa 
ter  runs  like  a  mill-race  There  are  huge  basins 
into  which  the  water  rumbles  over  a  ledge,  as 
if  some  one  were  pouring  it  very  steadily  out  of 
a  pitcher,  and  from  which  it  glides  away  with 
out  a  ripple,  flowing  over  a  smooth  pavement  of 
rock  which  shelves  down  from  the  shallow  foot 
to  the  deep  head  of  the  pool. 

The  boy  wonders  how  far  he  dare  wade  out 
along  that  slippery  floor.  The  water  is  within 
an  inch  of  his  boot-tops  now.  But  the  slope 
seems  very  even,  and  just  beyond  his  reach  a 
good  fish  is  rising.  Only  one  step  more,  and 
then,  like  the  wicked  man  in  the  psalm,  his  feet 
begin  to  slide.  Slowly,  and  standing  bolt  up 
right,  with  the  rod  held  high  above  his  head,  as 
if  it  must  on  no  account  get  wet,  he  glides  for 
ward  up  to  his  neck  in  the  ice-cold  bath,  gasp 
ing  with  amazement.  There  have  been  other 
and  more  serious  situations  in  life  into  which, 
unless  I  am  mistaken,  you  have  made  an  equally 
unwilling  and  embarrassed  entrance,  and  in 
which  you  have  been  surprised  to  find  yourself 
not  only  up  to  your  neck,  but  over,  —  and  you 
49 


A  LEAF  OF  SPEAENINT 

are  a  lucky  man  if  you  have  had  the  presence  of 
mind  to  stand  still  for  a  moment,  before  wading 
out,  and  make  sure  at  least  of  the  fish  that 
tempted  you  into  your  predicament. 

But  Eocky  Kun,  they  say,  exists  no  longer. 
It  has  been  blasted  by  miners  out  of  all  resem 
blance  to  itself,  and  bewitched  into  a  dingy 
water-power  to  turn  wheels  for  the  ugly  giant, 
Trade.  It  is  only  in  the  valley  of  remembrance 
that  its  current  still  flows  like  liquid  air ;  and 
only  in  that  country  that  you  can  still  see  the 
famous  men  who  came  and  went  along  the  banks 
of  the  Lycoming  when  the  boy  was  there. 

There  was  Collins,  who  was  a  wondrous  adept 
at  "  daping,  dapping,  or  dibbling  "  with  a  grass 
hopper,  and  who  once  brought  in  a  string  of 
trout  which  he  laid  out  head  to  tail  on  the  grass 
before  the  house  in  a  line  of  beauty  forty-seven 
feet  long.  A  mighty  bass  voice  had  this  Col 
lins  also,  and  could  sing,  "  Larboard  Watch, 
Ahoy  !  "  "  Down  in  a  Coal-Mine, "  and  other 
profound  ditties  in  a  way  to  make  all  the  glasses 
on  the  table  jingle ;  but  withal,  as  you  now  sus 
pect,  rather  a  fishy  character,  and  undeserving 
of  the  unqualified  respect  which  the  boy  had  for 
him.  And  there  was  Dr.  Romsen,  lean,  satiri 
cal,  kindly,  a  skilful  though  reluctant  physician, 
who  regarded  it  as  a  personal  injury  if  any  one 
in  the  party  fell  sick  in  summer  time ;  and  a 
50 


u 


A  LEAF  OF  SPEARMINT 

passionately  unsuccessful  hunter,  who  would  sit 
all  night  in  the  crotch  of  a  tree  beside  an  alleged 
deer-lick,  and  come  home  perfectly  satisfied  if 
he  had  heard  a  hedgehog  grunt.  It  was  he  who 
called  attention  to  the  discrepancy  between  the 
boy's  appetite  and  his  size  by  saying  loudly  at  a 
picnic,  "  I  would  n't  grudge  you  what  you  eat, 
my  boy,  if  I  could  only  see  that  it  did  you  any 
good,"  —  which  remark  was  not  forgiven  until 
the  doctor  redeemed  his  reputation  by  pronoun 
cing  a  serious  medical  opinion,  before  a  council 
of  mothers,  to  the  effect  that  it  did  not  really  hurt 
a  boy  to  get  his  feet  wet.  That  was  worthy  of 
Galen  in  his  most  inspired  moment.  And  there 
were  the  hearty,  genial  Paul  Merit,  whose  mere 
company  was  an  education  in  good  manners, 
and  who  could  eat  eight  hard-boiled  eggs  for 
supper  without  ruffling  his  equanimity ;  and  the 
tall,  thin,  grinning  major,  whom  an  angry  Irish 
woman  once  described  as  "  like  a  comb,  all  back 
and  teeth ; "  and  many  more  comrades  of  the 
boy's  father,  all  of  whom  he  admired,  (and  fol 
lowed  when  they  would  let  him,)  but  none  so 
much  as  the  father  himself,  because  he  was  the 
wisest,  kindest,  and  merriest  of  all  that  merry 
crew,  now  dispersed  to  the  uttermost  parts  of  the 
earth  and  beyond. 

Other  streams  played  a  part  in  the  education 
of  that  happy  boy  :  the  Kaaterskill,  where  there 
61 


A  LEAF  OF  SPEARMINT 

had  been  nothing  but  the  ghosts  of  trout  for 
the  last  thirty  years,  but  where  the  absence 
of  fish  was  almost  forgotten  in  the  joy  of  a 
first  introduction  to  Dickens,  one  very  showery 
day,  when  dear  old  Ned  Mason  built  a  smoky 
fire  in  a  cave  below  Haines's  Falls,  and,  pull 
ing  The  Old  Curiosity  Shop  out  of  his  pocket, 
read  aloud  about  Little  Nell  until  the  tears  ran 
down  the  cheeks  of  reader  and  listener  —  the 
smoke  was  so  thick,  you  know  :  and  the  Never- 
sink,  which  flows  through  John  Burroughs's 
country,  and  past  one  house  in  particular, 
perched  on  a  high  bluff,  where  a  very  dreadful 
old  woman  comes  out  and  throws  stones  at 
"city  fellers  fishin'  through  her  land"  (as  if 
any  one  wanted  to  touch  her  land  !  It  was  the 
water  that  ran  over  it,  you  see,  that  carried  the 
fish  with  it,  and  they  were  not  hers  at  all)  :  and 
the  stream  at  Healing  Springs,  in  the  Virginia 
mountains,  where  the  medicinal  waters  flow 
down  into  a  lovely  wild  brook  without  injuring 
the  health  of  the  trout  in  the  least,  and  where 
the  only  drawback  to  the  angler's  happiness  is 
the  abundance  of  rattlesnakes  —  but  a  boy 
does  not  mind  such  things  as  that ;  he  feels  as  if 
he  were  immortal.  Over  all  these  streams  mem- 
ory  skips  lightly,  and  strikes  a  trail  through  the 
woods  to  the  Adirondacks,  where  the  boy  made 
his  first  acquaintance  with  navigable  rivers,  — 
52 


A  LEAF  OF  SPEAEMINT 

that  is  to  say,  rivers  which  are  traversed  by 
canoes  and  hunting-skiffs,  but  not  yet  defiled  by 
steamboats,  —  and  slept,  or  rather  lay  awake, 
for  the  first  time  on  a  bed  of  balsam-boughs  in 
a  tent. 

in. 

The  promotion  from  all-day  picnics  to  a  two 
weeks'  camping-trip  is  like  going  from  school  to 
college.  By  this  time  a  natural  process  of  evo 
lution  has  raised  the  first  stiff  rod  to  something 
lighter  and  more  flexible,  —  a  fly-rod,  so  to 
speak,  but  not  a  bigoted  one,  —  just  a  service 
able,  unprejudiced  article,  not  above  using  any 
kind  of  bait  that  may  be  necessary  to  catch  the 
fish.  The  father  has  received  the  new  title  of 
"  governor,"  indicating  not  less,  but  more  au 
thority,  and  has  called  in  new  instructors  to 
carry  on  the  boy's  education :  real  Adirondack 
guides  —  old  Sam  Dunning  and  one-eyed  Enos, 
the  last  and  laziest  of  the  Saranac  Indians. 
Better  men  will  be  discovered  for  later  trips, 
but  none  more  amusing,  and  none  whose  wood 
craft  seems  more  wonderful  than  that  of  this 
queerly  matched  team,  as  they  make  the  first 
camp  in  a  pelting  rain-storm  on  the  shore  of  Big 
Clear  Pond.  The  pitching  of  the  tents  is  a  lesson 
in  architecture,  the  building  of  the  camp-fire 
a  victory  over  damp  nature,  and  the  supper  of 
53 


A  LEAF  OF  SPEARMINT 

potatoes  and  bacon  and  fried  trout  a  veritable 
triumph  of  culinary  art. 

At  midnight  the  rain  is  pattering  persistently 
on  the  canvas ;  the  front  flaps  are  closed  and  tied 
together  ;  the  lingering  fire  shines  through  them, 
and  sends  vague  shadows  wavering  up  and  down : 
the  governor  is  rolled  up  in  his  blankets,  sound 
asleep.  It  is  a  very  long  night  for  the  boy. 

What  is  that  rustling  noise  outside  the  tent  ? 
Probably  some  small  creature,  a  squirrel  or  a 
rabbit.  Eabbit  stew  would  be  good  for  break 
fast.  But  it  sounds  louder  now,  almost  loud 
enough  to  be  a  fox,  —  there  are  no  wolves  left 
in  the  Adirondacks,  or  at  least  only  a  very  few. 
That  is  certainly  quite  a  heavy  footstep  prowl 
ing  around  the  provision-box.  Could  it  be  a 
panther,  —  they  step  very  softly  for  their  size,  — 
or  a  bear  perhaps  ?  Sam  Dunning  told  about 
catching  one  in  a  trap  just  below  here.  (Ah, 
my  boy,  you  will  soon  learn  that  there  is  no  spot 
in  all  the  forests  created  by  a  bountiful  Provi 
dence  so  poor  as  to  be  without  its  bear  story.) 
Where  was  the  rifle  put  ?  There  it  is,  at  the 
foot  of  the  tent-pole.  Wonder  if  it  is  loaded  ? 

"  Waugh-ho  !   WaugJi-ho-o-o-o  !  " 

The  boy  springs  from  his  blankets  like  a  cat, 

and  peeps  out  between  the  tent-flaps.      There 

sits  Enos,  in  the  shelter  of  a  leaning  tree  by 

the  fire,  with  his  head  thrown  back  and  a  bottle 

54 


A  LEAF  OF  SPEARMINT 

poised  at  his  mouth.  His  lonely  eye  is  cocked 
up  at  a  great  horned  owl  on  the  branch  above 
him.  Again  the  sudden  voice  breaks  out : 

"  Whoo!  whoo!  whoo  cooks  for  you  all?" 

Enos  puts  the  bottle  down,  with  a  grunt,  and 
creeps  off  to  his  tent. 

"  De  debbil  in  dat  owl,"  he  mutters.  "  How 
he  know  I  cook  for  dis  camp  ?  How  he  know 
'bout  dat  bottle?  Ugh!" 

There  are  hundreds  of  pictures  that  flash 
into  light  as  the  boy  goes  on  his  course,  year 
after  year,  through  the  woods.  There  is  the 
luxurious  camp  on  Tupper's  Lake,  with  its  log 
cabins  in  the  spruce-grove,  and  its  regiment  of 
hungry  men  who  ate  almost  a  deer  a  day ;  and 
there  is  the  little  bark  shelter  on  the  side  of 
Mount  Marcy,  where  the  governor  and  the 
boy,  with  baskets  full  of  trout  from  the  Opa 
lescent  River,  are  spending  the  night,  with 
nothing  but  a  fire  to  keep  them  warm.  There 
is  the  North  Bay  at  Moosehead,  with  Joe  La 
Croix  (one  more  Frenchman  who  thinks  he 
looks  like  Napoleon)  posing  on  the  rocks  beside 
his  canoe,  and  only  reconciled  by  his  vanity  to 
the  wasteful  pastime  of  taking  photographs  while 
the  big  fish  are  rising  gloriously  out  at  the  end  of 
the  point.  There  is  the  small  spring-hole  beside 
the  Saranac  River,  where  Pliny  Robbins  and  the 
boy  caught  twenty-three  noble  trout,  weighing 
55 


A  LEAF  OF  SPEARMINT 

from  one  to  three  pounds  apiece,  in  the  middle 
of  a  hot  August  afternoon,  and  hid  themselves 
in  the  bushes  whenever  they  heard  a  party  com 
ing  down  the  river,  because  they  did  not  care 
to  attract  company;  and  there  are  the  Middle 
Falls,  where  the  governor  stood  on  a  long 
spruce  log,  taking  two-pound  fish  with  the  fly, 
and  stepping  out  at  every  cast  a  little  nearer 
to  the  end  of  the  log,  until  it  slowly  tipped  with 
him,  and  he  settled  down  into  the  river. 

Among  such  scenes  as  these  the  boy  pur 
sued  his  education,  learning  many  things  that 
are  not  taught  in  colleges;  learning  to  take 
the  weather  as  it  comes,  wet  or  dry,  and  for 
tune  as  it  falls,  good  or  bad;  learning  that 
a  meal  which  is  scanty  fare  for  one  becomes 
a  banquet  for  two — provided  the  other  is  the 
right  person;  learning  that  there  is  some  skill 
in  everything,  even  in  digging  bait,  and  that 
what  is  called  luck  consists  chiefly  in  having 
your  tackle  in  good  order;  learning  that  a 
man  can  be  just  as  happy  in  a  log  shanty  as  in 
a  brownstone  mansion,  and  that  the  very  best 
pleasures  are  those  that  do  not  leave  a  bad 
taste  in  the  mouth.  And  in  all  this  the  gover 
nor  was  his  best  teacher  and  his  closest  comrade. 

Dear  governor,  you  have  gone  out  of  the 
wilderness  now,  and  your  steps  will  be  no 
more  beside  these  remembered  little  rivers  — 
56 


The  Governor 


A  LEAF  OF  SPEARMINT 

no  more,  forever  and  forever.  You  will  not 
come  in  sight  around  any  bend  of  this  clear 
Swiftwater  stream  where  you  made  your  last 
cast;  your  cheery  voice  will  never  again  ring 
out  through  the  deepening  twilight  where  you 
are  lingering  for  your  disciple  to  catch  up 
with  you;  he  will  never  again  hear  you  call: 
"Hallo,  my  boy!  What  luck?  Time  to  go 
home !  "  But  there  is  a  river  in  the  country 
where  you  have  gone,  is  there  not?  —  a  river 
with  trees  growing  all  along  it  —  evergreen 
trees;  and  somewhere  by  those  shady  banks, 
within  sound  of  clear  running  waters,  I  think 
you  will  be  dreaming  and  waiting  for  your  boy, 
if  he  follows  the  trail  that  you  have  shown  him 
even  to  the  end. 

57 


AMPERSAND 


'  It  is  not  the  walking  merely,  it  is  keeping  yourself  in  tune  for  a  walk,  in 
the  spiritual  and  bodily  condition  in  which  you  can  find  entertainment 
and  exhilaration  in  so  simple  and  natural  a  pastime.  You  are  eligible 
to  any  good  fortune  when  you  are  in  a  condition  to  enjoy  a  walk.  IV hen 
the  air  and  water  taste  sweet  to  you,  how  much  else  will  taste  sweet ! 
IVhen  the  exercise  of  your  limbs  affords  you  pleasure,  and  the  play  of 
your  senses  upon  the  various  objects  and  shows  of  Natiire  quickens  and 
stimulates  your  spirit,  your  relation  to  the  world  and  to  yourself  is  what 
it  should  be,  —  simple^  and  direct,  and  wholesome.'1'1  —  JOHN  BUR 
ROUGHS:  Pepacton. 


AMPERSAND 

THE  right  to  the  name  of  Ampersand,  like  the 
territory  of  Gaul  in  those  Commentaries  which 
Julius  Csesar  wrote  for  the  punishment  of  school 
boys,  is  divided  into  three  parts.  It  belongs  to 
a  mountain,  and  a  lake,  and  a  little  river. 

The  mountain  stands  in  the  heart  of  the  Adi 
rondack  country,  just  near  enough  to  the  thor 
oughfare  of  travel  for  thousands  of  people  to 
see  it  every  year,  and  just  far  enough  from  the 
beaten  track  to  be  unvisited  except  by  a  very 
few  of  the  wise  ones,  who  love  to  turn  aside. 
Behind  the  mountain  is  the  lake,  which  no  lazy 
man  has  ever  seen.  Out  of  the  lake  flows  the 
stream,  winding  down  a  long,  untrodden  forest 
valley,  to  join  the  Stony  Creek  waters  and 
empty  into  the  Kaquette  Eiver. 

Which  of  the  three  Ampersands  has  the  prior 
claim  to  the  name,  I  cannot  tell.  Philosophi 
cally  speaking,  the  mountain  ought  to  be  re 
garded  as  the  head  of  the  family,  because  it 
was  undoubtedly  there  before  the  others.  And 
the  lake  was  probably  the  next  on  the  ground, 
61 


AMPERSAND 

because  the  stream  is  its  child.  But  man  is  not 
strictly  just  in  his  nomenclature ;  and  I  con 
jecture  that  the  little  river,  the  last-born  of  the 
three,  was  the  first  to  be  christened  Amper 
sand,  and  then  gave  its  name  to  its  parent  and 
grand-parent.  It  is  such  a  crooked  stream,  so 
bent  and  curved  and  twisted  upon  itself,  so 
fond  of  turning  around  unexpected  corners  and 
sweeping  away  in  great  circles  from  its  direct 
course,  that  its  first  explorers  christened  it  after 
the  eccentric  supernumerary  of  the  alphabet 
which  appears  in  the  old  spelling-books  as  &  — 
and  per  se,  and. 

But  in  spite  of  this  apparent  subordination  to 
the  stream  in  the  matter  of  a  name,  the  moun 
tain  clearly  asserts  its  natural  authority.  It 
stands  up  boldly ;  and  not  only  its  own  lake,  but 
at  least  three  others,  the  Lower  Saranac,  Round 
Lake,  and  Lonesome  Pond,  lie  at  its  foot  and 
acknowledge  its  lordship.  When  the  cloud  is 
on  its  brow,  they  are  dark.  When  the  sunlight 
strikes  it,  they  smile.  Wherever  you  may  go  over 
the  waters  of  these  lakes  you  shall  see  Mount 
Ampersand  looking  down  at  you,  and  saying 
quietly,  "  This  is  my  domain." 

I  never  look  at  a  mountain  which  asserts  itself 
in  this  fashion  without  desiring  to  stand  on  the 
top  of  it.  If  one  can  reach  the  summit,  one  be 
comes  a  sharer  in  the  dominion.  The  difficulties 
62 


AMPEESAND 

in  the  way  only  add  to  the  zest  of  the  victory. 
Every  mountain  is,  rightly  considered,  an  in 
vitation  to  climb.  And  as  I  was  resting  for  a 
month  one  summer  at  Bartlett's,  Ampersand 
challenged  me  daily. 

Did  you  know  Bartlett's  in  its  palmy  time  ? 
It  was  the  homeliest,  quaintest,  coziest  place  in 
the  Adirondacks.  Away  back  in  the  ante-bellum 
days  Virgil  Bartlett  had  come  into  the  woods,  and 
built  his  house  on  the  bank  of  the  Saranac  Eiver, 
between  the  Upper  Saranac  and  Round  Lake. 
It  was  then  the  only  dwelling  within  a  circle  of 
many  miles.  The  deer  and  bear  were  in  the 
majority.  At  night  one  could  sometimes  hear 
the  scream  of  the  panther  or  the  howling  of 
wolves.  But  soon  the  wilderness  began  to  wear 
the  traces  of  a  conventional  smile.  The  desert 
blossomed  a  little  —  if  not  as  the  rose,  at  least 
as  the  gilly-flower.  Fields  were  cleared,  gar 
dens  planted ;  half  a  dozen  log  cabins  were  scat 
tered  along  the  river ;  and  the  old  house,  hav 
ing  grown  slowly  and  somewhat  irregularly  for 
twenty  years,  came  out,  just  before  the  time  of 
which  I  write,  in  a  modest  coat  of  paint  and  a 
broad-brimmed  piazza.  But  Virgil  himself,  the 
creator  of  the  oasis  —  well  known  of  hunters 
and  fishermen,  dreaded  of  lazy  guides  and  quar 
relsome  lumbermen,  —  "  Virge,"  the  irascible, 
kind-hearted,  indefatigable,  was  there  no  longer, 
63 


AMPERSAND 

He  had  made  his  last  clearing,  and  fought  his 
last  fight ;  done  his  last  favour  to  a  friend,  and 
thrown  his  last  adversary  out  of  the  tavern  door. 
His  last  log  had  gone  down  the  river.  His 
camp-fire  had  burned  out.  Peace  to  his  ashes. 
His  wife,  who  had  often  played  the  part  of  Abi 
gail  towards  travellers  who  had  unconsciously 
incurred  the  old  man's  mistrust,  now  reigned  in 
his  stead;  and  there  was  great  abundance  of 
maple-syrup  on  every  man's  flapjack. 

The  charm  of  Bartlett's  for  the  angler  was 
the  stretch  of  rapid  water  in  front  of  the  house. 
The  Saranac  River,  breaking  from  its  first  rest 
ing-place  in  the  Upper  Lake,  plunged  down 
through  a  great  bed  of  rocks,  making  a  chain 
of  short  falls  and  pools  and  rapids,  about  half 
a  mile  in  length.  Here,  in  the  spring  and  early 
summer,  the  speckled  trout  —  brightest  and 
daintest  of  all  fish  that  swim  —  used  to  be  found 
in  great  numbers.  As  the  season  advanced,  they 
moved  away  into  the  deep  water  of  the  lakes. 
But  there  were  always  a  few  stragglers  left,  and 
I  have  taken  them  in  the  rapids  at  the  very  end 
of  August.  What  could  be  more  delightful 
than  to  spend  an  hour  or  two,  in  the  early  morn 
ing  or  evening  of  a  hot  day,  in  wading  this  rush 
ing  stream,  and  casting  the  fly  on  its  clear 
waters  ?  The  wind  blows  softly  down  the  nar 
row  valley,  and  the  trees  nod  from  the  rocks 
64 


Trouting 


AMPEESAND 

above  you.  The  noise  of  the  falls  makes  con 
stant  music  in  your  ears.  The  river  hurries  past 
you,  and  yet  it  is  never  gone. 

The  same  foam-flakes  seem  to  be  always  glid 
ing  downward,  the  same  spray  dashing  over  the 
stones,  the  same  eddy  coiling  at  the  edge  of  the 
pool.  Send  your  fly  in  under  those  cedar 
branches,  where  the  water  swirls  around  by  that 
old  log.  Now  draw  it  up  toward  the  foam.  There 
is  a  sudden  gleam  of  dull  gold  in  the  white  water. 
You  strike  too  soon.  Your  line  comes  back  to 
you.  In  a  current  like  this,  a  fish  will  almost 
always  hook  himself.  Try  it  again.  This  time 
he  takes  the  fly  fairly,  and  you  have  him.  It  is 
a  good  fish,  and  he  makes  the  slender  rod  bend 
to  the  strain.  He  sulks  for  a  moment  as  if  un 
certain  what  to  do,  and  then  with  a  rush  darts 
into  the  swiftest  part  of  the  current.  You  can 
never  stop  him  there.  Let  him  go.  Keep  just 
enough  pressure  on  him  to  hold  the  hook  firm, 
and  follow  his  troutship  down  the  stream  as  if 
he  were  a  salmon.  He  slides  over  a  little  fall, 
gleaming  through  the  foam,  and  swings  around 
in  the  next  pool.  Here  you  can  manage  him 
more  easily;  and  after  a  few  minutes'  brilliant 
play,  a  few  mad  dashes  for  the  current,  he 
comes  to  the  net,  and  your  skilful  guide  lands 
him  with  a  quick,  steady  sweep  of  the  arm. 
The  scales  credit  him  with  an  even  pound,  and 
65 


AMPERSAND 

a  better  fish  than  this  you  will  hardly  take  here 
in  midsummer. 

"  On  my  word,  master,"  says  the  appreciative 
Yenator,  in  Walton's  Angler,  "  this  is  a  gallant 
trout ;  what  shall  we  do  with  him  ?  "  And  hon 
est  Piscator,  replies :  "  Marry !  e'en  eat  him  to 
supper ;  we  '11  go  to  my  hostess  from  whence  we 
came ;  she  told  me,  as  I  was  going  out  of  door, 
that  my  brother  Peter,  (and  who  is  this  but 
Romeyn  of  Keeseville?)  a  good  angler  and  a 
cheerful  companion,  had  sent  word  he  would 
lodge  there  to-night,  and  bring  a  friend  with 
him.  My  hostess  has  two  beds,  and  I  know  you 
and  I  have  the  best ;  we  '11  rejoice  with  my 
brother  Peter  and  his  friend,  tell  tales,  or  sing 
ballads,  or  make  a  catch,  or  find  some  harmless 
sport  to  content  us,  and  pass  away  a  little  time 
without  offence  to  God  or  man." 

Ampersand  waited  immovable  while  I  passed 
many  days  in  such  innocent  and  heathful  pleas 
ures  as  these,  until  the  right  day  came  for  the 
ascent.  Cool,  clean,  and  bright,  the  crystal 
morning  promised  a  glorious  noon,  and  the 
mountain  almost  seemed  to  beckon  us  to  come 
up  higher.  The  photographic  camera  and  a 
trustworthy  lunch  were  stowed  away  in  the  pack- 
basket.  The  backboard  was  adjusted  at  a  com 
fortable  angle  in  the  stern  seat  of  our  little 
boat.  The  guide  held  the  little  craft  steady 
66 


AMPERSAND 


while  I  stepped  into  my  place ;  then  he  pushed 
out  into  the  stream,  and  we  went  swiftly  down 
toward  Eound  Lake. 

A  Saranac  boat  is  one  of  the  finest  things 
that  the  skill  of  man  has  ever  produced  under 
the  inspiration  of  the  wilderness.  It  is  a  frail 
shell,  so  light  that  a  guide  can  carry  it  on  his 
shoulders  with  ease,  but  so  dexterously  fashioned 
that  it  rides  the  heaviest  waves  like  a  duck,  and 
slips  through  the  water  as  if  by  magic.  You 
can  travel  in  it  along  the  shallowest  rivers  and 
across  the  broadest  lakes,  and  make  forty  or 
fifty  miles  a  day,  if  you  have  a  good  guide. 

Everything  depends,  in  the  Adirondacks,  as 
in  so  many  other  regions  of  life,  upon  your  guide. 
If  he  is  selfish,  or  surly,  or  stupid,  you  will  have 
a  bad  time.  But  if  he  is  an  Adirondacker  of 
the  best  old-fashioned  type,  —  now  unhappily 
growing  more  rare  from  year  to  year,  —  you 
will  find  him  an  inimitable  companion,  honest, 
faithful,  skilful  and  cheerful.  He  is  as  inde 
pendent  as  a  prince,  and  the  gilded  youths  and 
finicking  fine  ladies  who  attempt  to  patronize 
him  are  apt  to  make  but  a  sorry  show  before 
his  solid  and  undisguised  contempt.  But  deal 
with  him  man  to  man,  and  he  will  give  you  a 
friendly,  loyal  service  which  money  cannot  buy, 
and  teach  you  secrets  of  woodcraft  and  lessons 
in  plain,  self-reliant  manhood  more  valuable 
67 


AMPERSAND 

than  all  the  learning  of  the  schools.  Such  a 
guide  was  mine,  rejoicing  in  the  Scriptural  name 
of  Hosea,  but  commonly  called,  in  brevity  and 
friendliness,  "  Hose." 

As  we  entered  Eound  Lake  on  this  fair  morn 
ing,  its  surface  was  as  smooth  and  shining  as  a 
mirror.  It  was  too  early  yet  for  the  tide  of 
travel  which  sends  a  score  of  boats  up  and  down 
this  thoroughfare  every  day ;  and  from  shore  to 
shore  the  water  was  unruffled,  except  by  a  flock 
of  sheldrakes  which  had  been  feeding  near  Ply 
mouth  Eock,  and  now  went  skittering  off  into 
Weller  Bay  with  a  motion  between  flying  and 
swimming,  leaving  a  long  wake  of  foam  behind 
them. 

At  such  a  time  as  this  you  can  see  the  real 
colour  of  these  Adirondack  lakes.  It  is  not  blue, 
as  romantic  writers  so  often  describe  it,  nor 
green,  like  some  of  those  wonderful  Swiss  lakes, 
although  of  course  it  reflects  the  colour  of  the 
trees  along  the  shore ;  and  when  the  wind  stirs 
it,  it  gives  back  the  hue  of  the  sky,  blue  when  it 
is  clear,  gray  when  the  clouds  are  gathering, 
and  sometimes  as  black  as  ink  under  the  shadow 
of  storm.  But  when  it  is  still,  the  water  itself 
is  like  that  river  which  one  of  the  poets  has  de 
scribed  as 

"  Flowing  with  a  smooth  brown  current." 

And  in  this  sheet  of  burnished  bronze  the  moun- 
68 


AMPERSAND 


tains  and  islands  were  reflected  perfectly,  and 
the  sun  shone  back  from  it,  not  in  broken 
gleams  or  a  wide  lane  of  light,  but  like  a  single 
ball  of  fire,  moving  before  us  as  we  moved. 

But  stop !  What  is  that  dark  speck  on  the 
water,  away  down  toward  Turtle  Point  ?  It  has 
just  the  shape  and  size  of  a  deer's  head.  It  seems 
to  move  steadily  out  into  the  lake.  There  is  a 
little  ripple,  like  a  wake,  behind  it.  Hose  turns 
to  look  at  it,  and  then  sends  the  boat  darting  in 
that  direction  with  long,  swift  strokes.  It  is  a 
moment  of  pleasant  excitement,  and  we  begin  to 
conjecture  whether  the  deer  is  a  buck  or  a  doe, 
and  whose  hounds  have  driven  it  in.  But  when 
Hose  turns  to  look  again,  he  slackens  his  stroke, 
and  says :  "  I  guess  we  needn't  to  hurry ;  he 
won't  get  away.  It 's  astonishin'  what  a  lot  of 
fun  a  man  can  get  in  the  course  of  a  natural  life 
a-chasin'  chumps  of  wood." 

We  landed  on  a  sand  beach  at  the  mouth  of 
a  little  stream,  where  a  blazed  tree  marked  the 
beginning  of  the  Ampersand  trail.  This  line 
through  the  forest  was  made  years  ago  by  that 
ardent  sportsman  and  lover  of  the  Adirondacks, 
Dr.  W.  W.  Ely,  of  Kochester.  Since  that  time 
it  has  been  shortened  and  improved  a  little  by 
other  travellers,  and  also  not  a  little  blocked 
and  confused  by  the  lumbermen  and  the  course 
of  Nature.  For  when  the  lumbermen  go  into 
69 


AMPERSAND 

the  woods,  they  cut  roads  in  every  direction, 
leading  nowhither,  and  the  unwary  wanderer 
is  thereby  led  aside  from  the  right  way,  and  en 
tangled  in  the  undergrowth.  And  as  for  Nature, 
she  is  entirely  opposed  to  continuance  of  paths 
through  her  forest.  She  covers  them  with  fallen 
leaves,  and  hides  them  with  thick  bushes.  She 
drops  great  trees  across  them,  and  blots  them 
out  with  windfalls.  But  the  blazed  line  —  a 
succession  of  broad  axe-marks  on  the  trunks  of 
the  trees,  just  high  enough  to  catch  the  eye  on  a 
level  —  cannot  be  so  easily  obliterated,  and  this, 
after  all,  is  the  safest  guide  through  the  woods. 

Our  trail  led  us  at  first  through  a  natural 
meadow,  overgrown  with  waist-high  grass,  and 
very  spongy  to  the  tread.  Hornet-haunted  also 
was  this  meadow,  and  therefore  no  place  for  idle 
dalliance  or  unwary  digression,  for  the  bite  of 
the  hornet  is  one  of  the  saddest  and  most  humili 
ating  surprises  of  this  mortal  life. 

Then  through  a  tangle  of  old  wood-roads  my 
guide  led  me  safely,  and  we  struck  up  on  the 
long  ridges  which  slope  gently  from  the  lake  to 
the  base  of  the  mountain.  Here  walking  was 
comparatively  easy,  for  in  the  hard-wood  timber 
there  is  little  underbrush.  The  massive  trunks 
seemed  like  pillars  set  to  uphold  the  level  roof 
of  green.  Great  yellow  birches,  shaggy  with 
age,  stretched  their  knotted  arms  high  above 
70 


AMPERSAND 

us ;  sugar-maples  stood  up  straight  and  proud 
under  their  leafy  crowns ;  and  smooth  beeches 
—  the  most  polished  and  park-like  of  all  the 
forest  trees  —  offered  opportunities  for  the  carv 
ing  of  lovers'  names  in  a  place  where  few  lovers 
ever  come. 

The  woods  were  quiet.  It  seemed  as  if  all 
living  creatures  had  deserted  them.  Indeed,  if 
you  have  spent  much  time  in  our  Northern 
forests,  you  must  have  often  wondered  at  the 
sparseness  of  life,  and  felt  a  sense  of  pity  for  the 
apparent  loneliness  of  the  squirrel  that  chatters 
at  you  as  you  pass,  or  the  little  bird  that  hops 
noiselessly  about  in  the  thickets.  The  mid 
summer  noontide  is  an  especially  silent  time. 
The  deer  are  asleep  in  some  wild  meadow.  The 
partridge  has  gathered  her  brood  for  their  mid 
day  nap.  The  squirrels  are  perhaps  counting 
over  their  store  of  nuts  in  a  hollow  tree,  and 
the  hermit-thrush  spares  his  voice  until  evening. 
The  woods  are  close  —  not  cool  and  fragrant  as 
the  foolish  romances  describe  them  —  but  warm 
and  still ;  for  the  breeze  which  sweeps  across  the 
hilltop  and  ruffles  the  lake  does  not  penetrate 
into  these  shady  recesses,  and  therefore  all  the 
inhabitants  take  the  noontide  as  their  hour  of 
rest.  Only  the  big  woodpecker  —  he  of  the 
scarlet  head  and  mighty  bill  —  is  indefatigable, 
and  somewhere  unseen  is  "  tapping  the  hollow 
71 


AMPERSAND 

beech-tree,"  while  a  wakeful  little  bird,  —  I 
guess  it  is  the  black-throated  green  warbler,  — 
prolongs  his  dreamy,  listless  ditty,  —  'te-de-terit- 
sca,  —  'te-de-us-wait. 

After  about  an  hour  of  easy  walking,  our  trail 
began  to  ascend  more  sharply.  We  passed  over 
the  shoulder  of  a  ridge  and  around  the  edge  of 
a  fire-slash,  and  then  we  had  the  mountain  fairly 
before  us.  Not  that  we  could  see  anything  of 
it,  for  the  woods  still  shut  us  in,  but  the  path 
became  very  steep,  and  we  knew  that  it  was  a 
straight  climb;  not  up  and  down  and  round 
about  did  this  most  uncompromising  trail  pro 
ceed,  but  right  up,  in  a  direct  line  for  the  sum 
mit. 

Now  this  side  of  Ampersand  is  steeper  than 
any  Gothic  roof  I  have  ever  seen,  and  withal 
very  much  encumbered  with  rocks  and  ledges 
and  fallen  trees.  There  were  places  where  we 
had  to  haul  ourselves  up  by  roots  and  branches, 
and  places  where  we  had  to  go  down  on  our 
hands  and  knees  to  crawl  under  logs.  It  was 
breathless  work,  but  not  at  all  dangerous  or 
difficult.  Every  step  forward  was  also  a  step 
upward;  and  as  we  stopped  to  rest  for  a  mo 
ment,  we  could  see  already  glimpses  of  the  lake 
below  us,  But  at  these  I  did  not  much  care  to 
look,  for  I  think  it  is  a  pity  to  spoil  the  surprise 
of  a  grand  view  by  taking  little  snatches  of  it 
72 


AMPEBSAND 

beforehand.  It  is  better  to  keep  one's  face  set 
to  the  mountain,  and  then,  coming  out  from  the 
dark  forest  upon  the  very  summit,  feel  the  splen 
dour  of  the  outlook  flash  upon  one  like  a  revela 
tion. 

The  character  of  the  woods  through  which  we 
were  now  passing  was  entirely  different  from 
those  of  the  lower  levels.  On  these  steep  places 
the  birch  and  maple  will  not  grow,  or  at  least 
they  occur  but  sparsely.  The  higher  slopes  and 
sharp  ridges  of  the  mountains  are  always  cov 
ered  with  black  timber.  Spruce  and  hemlock 
and  balsam  strike  their  roots  among  the  rocks, 
and  find  a  hidden  nourishment.  They  stand 
close  together ;  thickets  of  small  trees  spring 
up  among  the  large  ones  ;  from  year  to  year  the 
great  trunks  are  falling  one  across  another,  and 
the  undergrowth  is  thickening  around  them, 
until  a  spruce  forest  seems  to  be  almost  impass 
able.  The  constant  rain  of  needles  and  the 
crumbling  of  the  fallen  trees  form  a  rich,  brown 
mould,  into  which  the  foot  sinks  noiselessly. 
Wonderful  beds  of  moss,  many  feet  in  thickness, 
and  softer  than  feathers,  cover  the  rocks  and 
roots.  There  are  shadows  never  broken  by  the 
sun,  and  dark,  cool  springs  of  icy  water  hidden 
away  in  the  crevices.  You  feel  a  sense  of  anti 
quity  here  which  you  can  never  feel  among  the 
maples  and  beeches.  Longfellow  was  right 
73 


AMPEESAND 

when  he  filled  his  forest  primeval  with  "  mur 
muring  pines  and  hemlocks." 

The  higher  one  climbs,  the  darker  and  gloom 
ier  and  more  rugged  the  vegetation  becomes. 
The  pine-trees  soon  cease  to  follow  you;  the 
hemlocks  disappear,  and  the  balsams  can  go 
no  farther.  Only  the  hardy  spruce  keeps  on 
bravely,  rough  and  stunted,  with  branches 
matted  together  and  pressed  down  flat  by  the 
weight  of  the  winter's  snow,  until  finally,  some 
where  about  the  level  of  four  thousand  feet 
above  the  sea,  even  this  bold  climber  gives  out, 
and  the  weather-beaten  rocks  of  the  summit  are 
clad  only  with  mosses  and  Alpine  plants. 

Thus  it  is  with  mountains,  as  perhaps  with 
men,  a  mark  of  superior  dignity  to  be  naturally 
bald. 

Ampersand,  falling  short  by  a  thousand  feet 
of  the  needful  height,  cannot  claim  this  dis 
tinction.  But  what  Nature  has  denied,  human 
labour  has  supplied.  Under  the  direction  of  the 
Adirondack  Survey,  some  years  ago,  several  acres 
of  trees  were  cut  from  the  summit ;  and  when  we 
emerged,  after  the  last  sharp  scramble,  upon  the 
very  crest  of  the  mountain,  we  were  not  shut  in 
by  a  dense  thicket,  but  stood  upon  a  bare  ridge 
of  granite  in  the  centre  of  a  ragged  clearing. 

I  shut  my  eyes  for  a  moment,  drew  a  few 
long  breaths  of  the  glorious  breeze,  and  then 
74 


AMPERSAND 

looked  out  upon  a  wonder  and  a  delight  beyond 
description. 

A  soft,  dazzling  splendour  filled  the  air. 
Snowy  banks  and  drifts  of  cloud  were  floating 
slowly  over  a  wide  and  wondrous  land.  Vast 
sweeps  of  forest,  shining  waters,  mountains  near 
and  far,  the  deepest  green  and  the  palest  blue, 
changing  colours  and  glancing  lights,  and  all  so 
silent,  so  strange,  so  far  away,  that  it  seemed 
like  the  landscape  of  a  dream.  One  almost 
feared  to  speak,  lest  it  should  vanish. 

Right  below  us  the  Lower  Saranac  and  Lone 
some  Pond,  Eound  Lake  and  the  Weller  Ponds, 
were  spread  out  like  a  map.  Every  point  and 
island  was  clearly  marked.  We  could  follow 
the  course  of  the  Saranac  River  in  all  its  curves 
and  windings,  and  see  the  white  tents  of  the  hay 
makers  on  the  wild  meadows.  Far  away  to  the 
northeast  stretched  the  level  fields  of  Blooming- 
dale.  But  westward  all  was  unbroken  wilder 
ness,  a  great  sea  of  woods  as  far  as  the  eye  could 
reach.  And  how  far  it  can  reach  from  a  height 
like  this  I  What  a  revelation  of  the  power  of 
sight !  That  faint  blue  outline  far  in  the  north 
was  Lyon  Mountain,  nearly  thirty  miles  away 
as  the  crow  flies.  Those  silver  gleams  a  little 
nearer  were  the  waters  of  St.  Regis.  The  Upper 
Saranac  was  displayed  in  all  its  length  and 
breadth,  and  beyond  it  the  innumerable  waters 
75 


AMPERSAND 

of  Fish  Creek  were  tangled  among  the  dark 
woods.  The  long  ranges  of  the  hills  about  the 
Jordan  bounded  the  western  horizon,  and  on 
the  southwest  Big  Tupper  Lake  was  sleeping  at 
the  base  of  Mount  Morris.  Looking  past  the 
peak  of  Stony  Creek  Mountain,  which  rose 
sharp  and  distinct  in  a  line  with  Ampersand, 
we  could  trace  the  path  of  the  Kaquette  Kiver 
from  the  distant  waters  of  Long  Lake  down 
through  its  far-stretched  valley,  and  catch  here 
and  there  a  silvery  link  of  its  current. 

But  when  we  turned  to  the  south  and  east, 
how  wonderful  and  how  different  was  the  view  ! 
Here  was  no  widespread  and  smiling  landscape 
with  gleams  of  silver  scattered  through  it,  and 
soft  blue  haze  resting  upon  its  fading  verge,  but 
a  wild  land  of  mountains,  stern,  rugged,  tumult 
uous,  rising  one  beyond  another  like  the  waves 
of  a  stormy  ocean,  —  Ossa  piled  upon  Pelion,  — 
Mclntyre's  sharp  peak,  and  the  ragged  crest  of 
the  Gothics,  and,  above  all,  Marcy's  dome-like 
head,  raised  just  far  enough  above  the  others  to 
assert  his  royal  right  as  monarch  of  the  Adiron- 
dacks. 

But  grandest  of  all,  as  seen  from  this  height, 
was  Mount  Seward,  —  a  solemn  giant  of  a  moun 
tain,  standing  apart  from  the  others,  and  looking 
us  full  in  the  face.  He  was  clothed  from  base 
to  summit  in  a  dark,  unbroken  robe  of  forest. 
76 


AMPERSAND 

Ou-kor-lah,  the  Indians  called  him  —  the  Great 
Eye  ;  and  he  seemed  almost  to  frown  upon  us  in 
defiance.  At  his  feet,  so  straight  below  us  that 
it  seemed  almost  as  if  we  could  cast  a  stone  into 
it,  lay  the  wildest  and  most  beautiful  of  all  the 
Adirondack  waters  —  Ampersand  Pond. 

On  its  shore,  some  five-and-twenty  years  ago, 
the  now  almost  forgotten  Adirondack  Club  had 
their  shanty  —  the  successor  of  "the  Philoso 
phers'  Camp  "  on  Follensbee  Pond.  Agassiz, 
Appleton,  Norton,  Emerson,  Lowell,  Hoar,  Gray, 
John  Holmes,  and  Stillman,  were  among  the 
company  who  made  their  resting-place  under  the 
shadow  of  Mount  Seward.  They  had  bought 
a  tract  of  forest  land  completely  encircling  the 
pond,  cut  a  rough  road  to  it  through  the  woods, 
and  built  a  comfortable  log  cabin,  to  which  they 
purposed  to  return  summer  after  summer.  But 
the  civil  war  broke  out,  with  all  its  terrible 
excitement  and  confusion  of  hurrying  hosts  :  the 
club  existed  but  for  two  years,  and  the  little 
house  in  the  wilderness  was  abandoned.  In 
1878,  when  I  spent  three  weeks  at  Ampersand, 
the  cabin  was  in  ruins,  and  surrounded  by  an 
almost  impenetrable  growth  of  bushes.  The 
only  philosophers  to  be  seen  were  a  family  of 
what  the  guides  quaintly  call  "  quill  pigs."  The 
roof  had  fallen  to  the  ground ;  raspberry-bushes 
thrust  themselves  through  the  yawning  crevices 
77 


AMPERSAND 

between  the  logs ;  and  in  front  of  the  sunken 
door-sill  lay  a  rusty,  broken  iron  stove,  like  a 
dismantled  altar  on  which  the  fire  had  gone  out 
forever. 

After  we  had  feasted  upon  the  view  as  long 
as  we  dared,  counted  the  lakes  and  streams,  and 
found  that  we  could  see  without  a  glass  more 
than  thirty,  and  recalled  the  memories  of  "  good 
times  "  which  came  to  us  from  almost  every  point 
of  the  compass,  we  unpacked  the  camera,  and 
proceeded  to  take  some  pictures. 

If  you  are  a  photographer,  and  have  anything 
of  the  amateur's  passion  for  your  art,  you  will 
appreciate  my  pleasure  and  my  anxiety.  Never 
before,  so  far  as  I  knew,  had  a  camera  been  set 
up  on  Ampersand.  I  had  but  eight  plates  with 
me.  The  views  were  all  very  distant  and  all  at 
a  downward  angle.  The  power  of  the  light  at 
this  elevation  was  an  unknown  quantity.  And 
the  wind  was  sweeping  vigorously  across  the 
open  summit  of  the  mountain.  I  put  in  my 
smallest  stop,  and  prepared  for  short  exposures. 

My  instrument  was  a  thing  called  a  Touro- 
graph,  which  differs  from  most  other  cameras  in 
having  the  plate-holder  on  top  of  the  box.  The 
plates  are  dropped  into  a  groove  below,  and  then 
moved  into  focus,  after  which  the  cap  is  removed 
and  the  exposure  made. 

I  set  my  instrument  for  Ampersand  Pond, 
78 


AMPERSAND 

sighted  the  picture  through  the  ground  glass, 
and  measured  the  focus.  Then  I  waited  for  a 
quiet  moment,  dropped  the  plate,  moved  it  care 
fully  forward  to  the  proper  mark,  and  went 
around  to  take  off  the  cap.  I  found  that  I 
already  had  it  in  my  hand,  and  the  plate  had 
been  exposed  for  about  thirty  seconds  with  a 
sliding  focus  ! 

I  expostulated  with  myself.  I  said:  "You 
are  excited ;  you  are  stupid ;  you  are  unworthy 
of  the  name  of  photographer.  Light  -  writer ! 
You  ought  to  write  with  a  whitewash  -  brush !  " 
The  reproof  was  effectual,  and  from  that  moment 
all  went  well.  The  plates  dropped  smoothly, 
the  camera  was  steady,  the  exposure  was  correct. 
Six  good  pictures  were  made,  to  recall,  so  far 
as  black  and  white  could  do  it,  the  delights  of 
that  day. 

It  has  been  my  good  luck  to  climb  many  of 
the  peaks  of  the  Adirondacks  —  Dix,  the  Dial, 
Hurricane,  the  Giant  of  the  Valley,  Marcy, 
and  Whiteface  —  but  I  do  not  think  the  out 
look  from  any  of  them  is  so  wonderful  and 
lovely  as  that  from  little  Ampersand;  and  I 
reckon  among  my  most  valuable  chattels  the 
plates  of  glass  on  which  the  sun  has  traced  for 
me  (who  cannot  draw)  the  outlines  of  that  love 
liest  landscape. 

The  downward  journey  was  swift.    We  halted 
79 


AMPERSAND 

for  an  hour  or  two  beside  a  trickling  spring,  a 
few  rods  below  the  summit,  to  eat  our  lunch. 
Then,  jumping,  running,  and  sometimes  sliding, 
we  made  the  descent,  passed  in  safety  by  the 
dreaded  lair  of  the  hornet,  and  reached  Bartlett's 
as  the  fragrance  of  the  evening  pancake  was 
softly  diffused  through  the  twilight.  Mark  that 
day,  memory,  with  a  double  star  in  your  cata 
logue  ! 

80 


A  HANDFUL  OF  HEATHER 


"  Scotlattd  is  the  home  of  romance  because  it  is  the  home  of  Scott,  Burns, 
Black,  Macdonald,  Stevenson,  and  Barrie  — and  of  thousands  of  men 
like  that  old  Highlander  in  kilts  on  the  tow-path,  who  loves  what  they 
have  written.  I  would  wager  he  has  a  copy  of  Burns  in  his  sporran, 
and  has  quoted  him  half  a  dozen  times  to  the  grim  Celt  who  is  walking 
with  him.  Those  old  boys  dott't  read  for  excitement  or  knowledge,  but 
because  they  love  their  land  and  their  people  and  their  religion  —  and 
their  great  writers  simply  express  their  emotions  for  them  in  -words 
they  can  understand.  You  and  I  come  over  here,  with  thousands  of 
our  countrymen,  to  borrow  their  emotions.'1''  —  ROBERT  BRIDGES  :  Over 
heard  in  A  ready. 


A  HANDFUL  OF  HEATHER 

MY  friend  the  triumphant  democrat,  fiercest 
of  radicals  and  kindest  of  men,  expresses  his 
scorn  for  monarchical  institutions  (and  his  in 
vincible  love  for  his  native  Scotland)  by  tenant 
ing,  summer  after  summer,  a  famous  castle 
among  the  heathery  Highlands.  There  he  pro 
claims  the  most  uncompromising  Americanism 
in  a  speech  that  grows  more  broadly  Scotch  with 
every  week  of  his  emancipation  from  the  in 
fluence  of  the  clipped,  commercial  accent  of  New 
York,  and  casts  contempt  on  feudalism  by  play 
ing  the  part  of  lord  of  the  manor  to  such  a  per 
fection  of  high-handed  beneficence  that  the  peo 
ple  of  the  glen  are  all  become  his  clansmen,  and 
his  gentle  lady  would  be  the  patron  saint  of  the 
district  —  if  the  republican  theology  of  Scotland 
could  only  admit  saints  among  the  elect. 

Every  year  he  sends  trophies  of  game  to  his 
friends  across  the  sea  —  birds  that  are  as  tooth 
some  and  wild-flavoured  as  if  they  had  not  been 
hatched  under  the  tyranny  of  the  game-laws. 
He  has  a  pleasant  trick  of  making  them  grate- 
83 


A  HANDFUL  OF  HEATHER 

ful  to  the  imagination  as  well  as  to  the  palate 
by  packing  them  in  heather.  I  '11  warrant  that 
Aaron's  rod  bore  no  bonnier  blossoms  than  these 
stiff  little  bushes  —  and  none  more  magical. 
For  every  time  I  take  up  a  handful  of  them  they 
transport  me  to  the  Highlands,  and  send  me 
tramping  once  more,  with  knapsack  and  fishing- 
rod,  over  the  braes  and  down  the  burns. 

I. 

BELL-HEATHER 

Some  of  my  happiest  meanderings  in  Scotland 
have  been  taken  under  the  lead  of  a  book.  In 
deed,  for  travel  in  a  strange  country  there  can 
be  no  better  courier.  Not  a  guide-book,  I  mean, 
but  a  real  book,  and,  by  preference,  a  novel. 

Fiction,  like  wine,  tastes  best  in  the  place 
where  it  was  grown.  And  the  scenery  of  a 
foreign  land  (including  architecture,  which  is 
artificial  landscape)  grows  less  dreamlike  and 
unreal  to  our  perception  when  we  people  it  with 
familiar  characters  from  our  favourite  novels. 
Even  on  a  first  journey  we  feel  ourselves  among 
old  friends.  Thus  to  read  Romola  in  Florence, 
and  Les  Miserables  in  Paris,  and  Lorna  Doone 
on  Exmoor,  and  The  Heart  of  Midlothian  in 
Edinburgh,  and  David  Balfour  in  the  Pass  of 
Glencoe,  and  The  Pirate  in  the  Shetland  Isles, 
84 


A  HANDFUL  OF  HEATHER 

is  to  get  a  new  sense  of  the  possibilities  of  life. 
All  these  things  have  I  done  with  much  inward 
contentment ;  and  other  things  of  like  quality 
have  I  yet  in  store;  as,  for  example,  the  con 
junction  of  The  Bonnie  Brier-Bush  with  Drum- 
tochty,  and  The  Little  Minister  with  Thrums, 
and  The  Raiders  with  Galloway.  But  I  never 
expect  to  pass  pleasanter  days  than  those  I  spent 
with  A  Princess  of  Thule  among  the  Hebrides. 

For  then,  to  begin  with,  I  was  young  ;  which  is 
an  unearned  increment  of  delight  sure  to  be  con 
fiscated  by  the  envious  years  and  never  regained. 
But  even  youth  itself  was  not  to  be  compared 
with  the  exquisite  felicity  of  being  deeply  and 
desperately  in  love  with  Sheila,  the  clear-eyed 
heroine  of  that  charming  book.  In  this  inno 
cent  passion  my  gray-haired  comrades,  Howard 
Crosby,  the  Chancellor  of  the  University  of 
New  York,  and  my  father,  an  ex-Moderator  of 
the  Presbyterian  General  Assembly,  were  ardent 
but  generous  rivals. 

Bountiful  Heaven,  source  of  all  our  blessings, 
how  great  is  the  joy  and  how  fascinating  the 
pursuit  of  such  an  ethereal  affection!  It  en 
larges  the  heart  without  embarrassing  the  con 
science.  It  is  a  cup  of  pure  gladness  with  no 
bitterness  in  its  dregs.  It  spends  the  present 
moment  with  a  free  hand,  and  yet  leaves  no 
undesirable  mortgage  upon  the  future.  King 
85 


A  HANDFUL  OF  HEATHER 

Arthur,  the  founder  of  the  Round  Table,  ex 
pressed  a  conviction,  according  to  Tennyson, 
that  the  most  important  element  in  a  young 
knight's  education  is  "  the  maiden  passion  for  a 
maid."  Surely  the  safest  form  in  which  this 
course  may  be  taken  is  by  falling  in  love  with  a 
girl  in  a  book.  It  is  the  only  affair  of  the  kind 
into  which  a  young  fellow  can  enter  without 
responsibility,  and  out  of  which  he  can  always 
emerge,  when  necessary,  without  discredit.  And 
as  for  the  old  fellow  who  still  keeps  up  this  edu 
cation  of  the  heart,  and  worships  his  heroine 
with  the  ardor  of  a  John  Ridd  and  the  fidelity 
of  a  Henry  Esmond,  I  maintain  that  he  is  ex 
empt  from  all  the  penalties  of  declining  years. 
The  man  who  can  love  a  girl  in  a  book  may  be 
old,  but  never  aged. 

So  we  sailed,  lovers  all  three,  among  the 
Western  Isles,  and  whatever  ship  it  was  that 
carried  us,  her  figurehead  was  always  the  Prin 
cess  Sheila.  Along  the  ruffled  blue  waters  of 
the  sounds  and  lochs  that  wind  among  the  roots 
of  unpronounceable  mountains,  and  past  the  dark 
hills  of  Skye,  and  through  the  unnumbered 
flocks  of  craggy  islets  where  the  sea-birds  nest, 
the  spell  of  the  sweet  Highland  maid  drew  us, 
and  we  were  pilgrims  to  the  Ultima  Thule  where 
she  lived  and  reigned. 

The  Lewis,  with  its  tail-piece,  the  Harris,  is 
86 


A  HANDFUL  OF  HEATHER 

quite  a  sizable  island  to  be  appended  to  such  a 
country  as  Scotland.  It  is  a  number  of  miles 
long,  and  another  number  of  miles  wide,  and 
it  has  a  number  of  thousand  inhabitants  —  I 
should  say  as  many  as  three-quarters  of  an  in 
habitant  to  the  square  mile  —  and  the  conditions 
of  agriculture  and  the  fisheries  are  extremely  in 
teresting  and  quarrelsome.  All  these  I  duly 
studied  at  the  time,  and  reported  in  a  series  of 
intolerably  dull  letters  to  the  newspaper  which 
supplied  a  financial  basis  for  my  sentimental 
journey.  They  are  full  of  information,  but  I 
have  been  amused  to  note,  after  these  many 
years,  how  wide  they  steer  of  the  true  motive 
and  interest  of  the  excursion.  There  is  not  even 
a  hint  of  Sheila  in  any  of  them.  Youth,  after 
all,  is  but  a  shamefaced  and  secretive  season ; 
like  the  fringed  polygala,  it  hides  its  real  blos 
som  underground. 

It  was  Sheila's  dark-blue  dress  and  sailor  hat 
with  the  white  feather  that  we  looked  for  as  we 
loafed  through  the  streets  of  Stornoway,  that 
quaint  metropolis  of  the  herring-trade,  where 
strings  of  fish  alternated  with  boxes  of  flowers  in 
the  windows,  and  handfuls  of  fish  were  spread 
upon  the  roofs  to  dry  just  as  the  sliced  apples 
are  exposed  upon  the  kitchen-sheds  of  New  Eng 
land  in  September,  and  dark-haired  women  were 
carrying  great  creels  of  fish  on  their  shoulders, 
87 


A  HANDFUL '  OF  ' 

and  groups  of  sunburned  men  were  smoking 
among  the  fishing-boats  on  the  beach  and  talk 
ing  about  fish,  and  sea-gulls  were  floating  over 
the  houses  with  their  heads  turning  from  side  to 
side  and  their  bright  eyes  peering  everywhere 
for  unconsidered  trifles  of  fish,  and  the  whole 
atmosphere  of  the  place,  physical,  mental,  and 
moral,  was  pervaded  with  fish.  It  was  Sheila's 
soft,  sing-song  Highland  speech  that  we  heard 
through  the  long,  luminous  twilight  in  the 
pauses  of  that  friendly  chat  on  the  balcony  of 
the  little  inn  where  a  good  fortune  brought  us 
acquainted  with  Sam  Bough,  the  mellow  Edin 
burgh  painter.  It  was  Sheila's  low  sweet  brow, 
and  long  black  eyelashes,  and  tender  blue  eyes, 
that  we  saw  before  us  as  we  loitered  over  the 
open  moorland,  a  far-rolling  sea  of  brown  bil 
lows,  reddened  with  patches  of  bell-heather,  and 
brightened  here  and  there  with  little  lakes  lying 
wide  open  to  the  sky.  And  were  not  these  peat- 
cutters,  with  the  big  baskets  on  their  backs, 
walking  in  silhouette  along  the  ridges,  the  peo 
ple  that  Sheila  loved  and  tried  to  help;  and 
were  not  these  crofters'  cottages  with  thatched 
roofs,  like  beehives,  blending  almost  impercepti 
bly  with  the  landscape,  the  dwellings  into  which 
she  planned  to  introduce  the  luxury  of  windows ; 
and  were  not  these  Standing  Stones  of  Caller- 
nish,  huge  tombstones  of  a  vanished  religion, 
88 


A  HANDFUL  OF  HEATHER 

the  roofless  temple  from  which  the  Druids  paid 
their  westernmost  adoration  to  the  setting  sun 
as  he  sank  into  the  Atlantic  —  was  not  this  the 
place  where  Sheila  picked  the  bunch  of  wild 
flowers  and  gave  it  to  her  lover  ?  There  is  no 
thing  in  history,  I  am  sure,  half  so  real  to  us  as 
some  of  the  things  in  fiction.  The  influence  of 
an  event  upon  our  character  is  little  affected  by 
considerations  as  to  whether  or  not  it  ever  hap 
pened. 

There  were  three  churches  in  Stornoway, 
all  Presbyterian,  of  course,  and  therefore  full 
of  pious  emulation.  The  idea  of  securing  an 
American  preacher  for  an  August  Sabbath 
seemed  to  fall  upon  them  simultaneously,  and  to 
offer  the  prospect  of  novelty  without  too  much 
danger.  The  brethren  of  the  U.  P.  congrega 
tion,  being  a  trifle  more  gleg  than  the  others, 
arrived  first  at  the  inn,  and  secured  the  pro 
mise  of  a  morning  sermon  from  Chancellor 
Howard  Crosby.  The  session  of  the  Free  Kirk 
came  in  a  body  a  little  later,  and  to  them  my 
father  pledged  himself  for  the  evening  sermon. 
The  senior  elder  of  the  Established  Kirk,  a 
snuff-taking  man  and  very  deliberate,  was  the 
last  to  appear,  and  to  his  request  for  an  after 
noon  sermon  there  was  nothing  left  to  offer  but 
the  services  of  the  young  probationer  in  the 
ology.  I  could  see  that  it  struck  him  as  a  peril- 
89 


A  HANDFUL  OF  HEATHER 

ous  adventure.  Questions  about  "  the  funda 
mentals  "  glinted  in  his  watery  eye.  He  crossed 
and  uncrossed  his  legs  with  solemnity,  and  blew 
his  nose  so  frequently  in  a  huge  red  silk  hand 
kerchief  that  it  seemed  like  a  signal  of  danger. 
At  last  he  unburdened  himself  of  his  hesita 
tions. 

"Ah  'm  not  saying  that  the  young  man  will  not 
be  orthodox  —  ahem  !  But  ye  know,  sir,  in  the 
Kirk,  we  are  not  using  hymns,  but  just  the  pure 
Psawms  of  Daffit,  in  ,the  meetrical  fairsion. 
And  ye  know,  sir,  they  are  ferry  tifficult  in  the 
reating,  whatefer,  for  a  young  man,  and  one  that 
iss  a  stranger.  And  if  his  father  will  just  be 
coming  with  him  in  the  pulpit,  to  see  that  no 
thing  iss  said  amiss,  that  will  be  ferry  comfort 
ing  to  the,  congregation" 

So  the  dear  governor  swallowed  his  laughter 
gravely  and  went  surety  for  his  son.  They  ap 
peared  together  in  the  church,  a  barnlike  edifice, 
with  great  galleries  half-way  between  the  floor 
and  the  roof.  Still  higher  up,  the  pulpit  stuck 
like  a  swallow's  nest  against  the  wall.  The  two 
ministers  climbed  the  precipitous  stair  and  found 
themselves  in  a  box  so  narrow  that  one  must 
stand  perforce,  while  the  other  sat  upon  the  only 
seat.  In  this  "  ride  and  tie  "  fashion  they  went 
through  the  service.  When  it  was  time  to  preach, 
the  young  man  dropped  the  doctrines  as  dis- 
90 


A  HANDFUL  OF  HEATHER 

creetly  as  possible  upon  the  upturned  counte 
nances  beneath  him.  I  have  forgotten  now  what 
it  was  all  about,  but  there  was  a  quotation  from 
the  Song  of  Solomon,  ending  with  "  Sweet  is 
thy  voice,  and  thy  countenance  is  comely."  And 
when  it  came  to  that,  the  probationer's  eyes  (if 
the  truth  must  be  told)  went  searching  through 
that  sea  of  faces  for  one  that  should  be  familiar 
to  his  heart,  and  to  which  he  might  make  a  per 
sonal  application  of  the  Scripture  passage  —  even 
the  face  of  Sheila. 

There  are  rivers  in  the  Lewis,  at  least  two  of 
them,  and  on  one  of  these  we  had  the  offer  of  a 
rod  for  a  day's  fishing.  Accordingly  we  cast  lots, 
and  the  lot  fell  upon  the  youngest,  and  I  went 
forth  with  a  tall,  red-legged  gillie,  to  try  for  my 
first  salmon.  The  Whitewater  came  singing 
down  out  of  the  moorland  into  a  rocky  valley, 
and  there  was  a  merry  curl  of  air  on  the  pools, 
and  the  silver  fish  were  leaping  from  the  stream. 
The  gillie  handled  the  big  rod  as  if  it  had  been 
a  fairy's  wand,  but  to  me  it  was  like  a  giant's 
spear.  It  was  a  very  different  affair  from  fish 
ing  with  five  ounces  of  split  bamboo  on  a  Long 
Island  trout-pond.  The  monstrous  fly,  like  an 
awkward  bird,  went  fluttering  everywhere  but 
in  the  right  direction.  It  was  the  mercy  of  Pro 
vidence  that  preserved  the  gillie's  life.  But  he 
was  very  patient  and  forbearing,  leading  me  on 
91 


A  HANDFUL  OF  HEATHEE 

from  one  pool  to  another,  as  I  spoiled  the  water 
and  snatched  the  hook  out  of  the  very  mouth  of 
rising  fish,  until  at  last  we  found  a  salmon  that 
knew  even  less  about  the  niceties  of  salmon- 
fishing  than  I  did.  He  seized  the  fly  firmly  be 
fore  I  could  pull  it  away,  and  then,  in  a  moment, 
I  found  myself  attached  to  a  creature  with  the 
strength  of  a  whale  and  the  agility  of  a  flying- 
fish.  He  led  me  rushing  up  and  down  the  bank 
like  a  madman.  He  played  on  the  surface  like 
a  whirlwind,  and  sulked  at  the  bottom  like  a 
stone.  He  meditated,  with  ominous  delay,  in 
the  middle  of  the  deepest  pool,  and  then,  dart 
ing  across  the  river,  flung  himself  clean  out  of 
water  and  landed  far  up  on  the  green  turf  of  the 
opposite  shore.  My  heart  melted  like  a  snowflake 
in  the  sea,  and  I  thought  that  I  had  lost  him  for 
ever.  But  he  rolled  quietly  back  into  the  water 
with  the  hook  still  set  in  his  nose.  A  few  min 
utes  afterwards  I  brought  him  within  reach  of 
the  gaff,  and  my  first  salmon  was  glittering  in 
the  grass  beside  me. 

Then  I  remembered  that  William  Black  had 
described  this  very  fish  in  the  "Princess  of 
Thule."  I  pulled  the  book  from  my  pocket, 
and,  lighting  a  pipe,  sat  down  to  read  that  de 
lightful  chapter  over  again.  The  breeze  played 
softly  down  the  valley.  The  warm  sunlight  was 
filled  with  the  musical  hum  of  insects  and  the 
92 


A  HANDFUL  OF  HEATHER 

murmur  of  falling  waters.  I  thought  how  much 
pleasanter  it  would  have  been  to  learn  salmon- 
fishing,  as  Black's  hero  did,  from  the  Maid  of 
Borva,  than  from  a  red-headed  gillie.  But, 
then,  his  salmon,  after  leaping  across  the  stream, 
got  away ;  whereas  mine  was  safe.  A  man  can 
not  have  everything  in  this  world.  I  picked  a 
spray  of  rosy  bell-heather  from  the  bank  of  the 
river,  and  pressed  it  between  the  leaves  of  the 
book  in  memory  of  Sheila. 

n. 

COMMON    HEATHER. 

It  is  not  half  as  far  from  Albany  to  Aberdeen 
as  it  is  from  New  York  to  London.  In  fact,  I 
venture  to  say  that  an  American  on  foot  will 
find  himself  less  a  foreigner  in  Scotland  than  in 
any  other  country  in  the  Old  World.  There  is 
something  warm  and  hospitable  —  if  he  knew 
the  language  well  enough  he  would  call  it  couthy 
—  in  the  greeting  that  he  gets  from  the  shepherd 
on  the  moor,  and  the  conversation  that  he  holds 
with  the  farmer's  wife  in  the  stone  cottage,  where 
he  stops  to  ask  for  a  drink  of  milk  and  a  bit  of 
oat-cake.  He  feels  that  there  must  be  a  drop  of 
Scotch  somewhere  in  his  mingled  blood,  or  at 
least  that  the  texture  of  his  thought  and  feelings 
has  been  partly  woven  on  a  Scottish  loom  —  per- 
93 


A  HANDFUL  OF  HEATHER 

haps  the  Shorter  Catechism,  or  Robert  Burns's 
poems,  or  the  romances  of  Sir  Walter  Scott. 
At  all  events,  he  is  among  a  kindred  and  com 
prehending  people.  They  do  not  speak  English 
in  the  same  way  that  he  does  —  through  the 
nose  —  but  they  think  very  much  more  in  his 
mental  dialect  than  the  English  do.  They  are 
independent  and  wide  awake,  curious  and  full 
of  personal  interest.  The  wayside  mind  in  In 
verness  or  Perth  runs  more  to  muscle  and  less 
to  fat,  has  more  active  vanity  and  less  passive 
pride,  is  more  inquisitive  and  excitable  and  sym 
pathetic  —  in  short,  to  use  a  symbolist's  descrip 
tion,  it  is  more  apt  to  be  red-headed  —  than  in 
Surrey  or  Somerset.  Scotchmen  ask  more  ques 
tions  about  America,  but  fewer  foolish  ones. 
You  will  never  hear  them  inquiring  whether 
there  is  any  good  bear-hunting  in  the  neigh 
bourhood  of  Boston,  or  whether  Shakespeare  is 
much  read  in  the  States.  They  have  a  healthy 
respect  for  our  institutions,  and  have  quite  for 
given  (if,  indeed,  they  ever  resented)  that  little 
affair  in  1776.  They  are  all  born  Liberals. 
When  a  Scotchman  says  he  is  a  Conservative,  it 
only  means  that  he  is  a  Liberal  with  hesitations. 
And  yet  in  North  Britain  the  American  pe 
destrian  will  not  find  that  amused  and  somewhat 
condescending  toleration  for  his  peculiarities, 
that  placid  willingness  to  make  the  best  of  all 
94 


A  HANDFUL  OF  HEATHER 

his  vagaries  of  speech  and  conduct,  that  he  finds 
in  South  Britain.  In  an  English  town  you  may 
do  pretty  much  what  you  like  on  a  Sunday,  even 
to  the  extent  of  wearing  a  billycock  hat  to 
church,  and  people  will  put  up  with  it  from  a 
countryman  of  Buffalo  Bill  and  the  Wild  West 
Show.  But  in  a  Scotch  village,  if  you  whistle 
in  the  street  on  a  Lord's  Day,  though  it  be  a 
Moody  and  Sankey  tune,  you  will  be  likely 
to  get,  as  I  did,  an  admonition  from  some  long- 
legged,  grizzled  elder : 

"  Young  man,  do  ye  no  ken  it 's  the  Sawbath 
Day?" 

I  recognized  the  reproof  of  the  righteous,  an 
excellent  oil  which  doth  not  break  the  head,  and 
took  it  gratefully  at  the  old  man's  hands.  For 
did  it  not  prove  that  he  regarded  me  as  a  man 
and  a  brother,  a  creature  capable  of  being  civil 
ized  and  saved  ? 

It  was  in  the  gray  town  of  Dingwall  that  I 
had  this  bit  of  pleasant  correction,  as  I  was  on 
the  way  to  a  fishing  tramp  through  Sutherland- 
shire.  This  northwest  corner  of  Great  Britain 
is  the  best  place  in  the  whole  island  for  a  modest 
and  impecunious  angler.  There  are,  or  there 
were  a  few  years  ago,  wild  lochs  and  streams 
which  are  still  practically  free,  and  a  man  who 
is  content  with  small  things  can  pick  up  some 
very  pretty  sport  from  the  highland  inns,  and 
95 


A  HANDFUL  OF  HEATHER 

make  a  good  basket  of  memorable  experiences 
every  week. 

The  inn  at  Lairg,  overlooking  the  narrow 
waters  of  Loch  Shin,  was  embowered  in  honey 
suckles,  and  full  of  creature  comfort.  But 
there  were  too  many  other  men  with  rods  there 
to  suit  my  taste.  "  The  feesh  in  this  loch,"  said 
the  boatman, "  iss  not  so  numerous  ass  the  feesh- 
ermen,  but  more  wise.  There  iss  not  one  of 
them  that  hass  not  felt  the  hook,  and  they  know 
ferry  well  what  side  of  the  fly  has  the  forkit 
tail." 

At  Altnaharra,  in  the  shadow  of  Ben  Clebrig, 
there  was  a  cozy  little  house  with  good  fare,  and 
abundant  trout-fishing  in  Loch  Naver  and  Loch 
Meadie.  It  was  there  that  I  fell  in  with  a  wan 
dering  pearl-peddler  who  gathered  his  wares 
from  the  mussels  in  the  moorland  streams. 
They  were  not  of  the  finest  quality,  these  Scotch 
pearls,  but  they  had  pretty,  changeable  colours 
of  pink  and  blue  upon  them,  like  the  iridescent 
light  that  plays  over  the  heather  in  the  long 
northern  evenings.  I  thought  it  must  be  a  hard 
life  for  the  man,  wading  day  after  day  in  the  ice- 
cold  water,  and  groping  among  the  coggly,  slid- 
dery  stones  for  the  shellfish,  and  cracking  open 
perhaps  a  thousand  before  he  could  find  one 
pearl.  "  Oh,  yess,"  said  he,  "  and  it  iss  not  an 
easy  life,  and  I  am  not  saying  that  it  will  be  so 
96 


A  HANDFUL  OF  HEATHER 

warm  and  dry  ass  liffing  in  a  rich  house.  But 
it  iss  the  life  that  I  am  fit  for,  and  I  hef  my  own 
time  and  my  thoughts  to  mysel',  and  that  is  a 
ferry  goot  thing ;  and  then,  sir,  I  haf  found  the 
Pearl  of  Great  Price,  and  I  think  upon  that  day 
and  night." 

Under  the  black,  shattered  peaks  of  Ben 
Laoghal,  where  I  saw  an  eagle  poising  day  after 
day  as  if  some  invisible  centripetal  force  bound 
him  forever  to  that  small  circle  of  air,  there  was 
a  loch  with  plenty  of  brown  trout  and  a  few 
salmoferox;  and  down  at  Tongue  there  was  a 
little  river  where  the  sea  trout  sometimes  come 
up  with  the  tide. 

Here  I  found  myself  upon  the  north  coast, 
and  took  the  road  eastward  between  the  moun 
tains  and  the  sea.  It  was  a  beautiful  region  of 
desolation.  There  were  rocky  glens  cutting 
across  the  road,  and  occasionally  a  brawling 
stream  ran  down  to  the  salt  water,  breaking  the 
line  of  cliffs  with  a  little  bay  and  a  half -moon  of 
yellow  sand.  The  heather  covered  all  the  hills. 
There  were  no  trees,  and  but  few  houses.  The 
chief  signs  of  human  labour  were  the  rounded 
piles  of  peat,  and  the  square  cuttings  in  the  moor 
marking  the  places  where  the  subterranean  wood- 
choppers  had  gathered  their  harvests.  The  long 
straths  were  once  cultivated,  and  every  patch  of 
arable  land  had  its  group  of  cottages  full  of 
97 


A  HANDFUL  OF  HEATHER 

children.  The  human  harvest  has  always  been 
the  richest  and  most  abundant  that  is  raised 
in  the  Highlands ;  but  unfortunately  the  supply 
exceeded  the  demand ;  and  so  the  crofters  were 
evicted,  and  great  flocks  of  sheep  were  put  in 
possession  of  the  land ;  and  now  the  sheep-pas 
tures  have  been  changed  into  deer-forests ;  and 
far  and  wide  along  the  valleys  and  across  the 
hills  there  is  not  a  trace  of  habitation,  except  the 
heaps  of  stones  and  the  clumps  of  straggling 
bushes  which  mark  the  sites  of  lost  homes.  But 
what  is  one  country's  loss  is  another  country's 
gain.  Canada  and  the  United  States  are  in 
finitely  the  richer  for  the  tough,  strong,  fearless, 
honest  men  that  were  dispersed  from  these  lonely 
straths  to  make  new  homes  across  the  sea. 

It  was  after  sundown  when  I  reached  the 
straggling  village  of  Melvich,  and  the  long 
day's  journey  had  left  me  weary.  But  the  inn, 
with  its  red-curtained  windows,  looked  bright 
and  reassuring.  Thoughts  of  dinner  and  a  good 
bed  comforted  my  spirit  —  prematurely.  For 
the  inn  was  full.  There  were  but  five  bedrooms 
and  two  parlors.  The  gentlemen  who  had  the 
neighboring  shootings  occupied  three  bedrooms 
and  a  parlor ;  the  other  two  bedrooms  had  just 
been  taken  by  the  English  fishermen  who  had 
passed  me  in  the  road  an  hour  ago  in  the  mail- 
coach  (oh !  why  had  I  not  suspected  that  treach- 


A  HANDFUL  OF  HEATHER 

erous  vehicle  ?)  ;  and  the  landlord  and  his  wife 
assured  me,  with  equal  firmness  and  sympathy, 
that  there  was  not  another  cot  or  pair  of  blankets 
in  the  house.  I  believed  them,  and  was  sinking 
into  despair  when  Sandy  M'Kaye  appeared  on 
the  scene  as  my  angel  of  deliverance.  Sandy 
was  a  small,  withered,  wiry  man,  dressed  in 
rusty  gray,  with  an  immense  white  collar  thrust 
ing  out  its  points  on  either  side  of  his  chin,  and 
a  black  stock  climbing  over  the  top  of  it.  I 
guessed  from  his  speech  that  he  had  once  lived 
in  the  lowlands.  He  had  hoped  to  be  engaged 
as  a  gillie  by  the  shooting  party,  but  had  been 
disappointed.  He  had  wanted  to  be  taken  by 
the  English  fishermen,  but  another  and  younger 
man  had  stepped  in  before  him.  Now  Sandy 
saw  in  me  his  Predestinated  Opportunity,  and 
had  no  idea  of  letting  it  post  up  the  road  that 
night  to  the  next  village.  He  cleared  his  throat 
respectfully  and  cut  into  the  conversation. 

"Ah'm  thinkin'  the  gentleman  micht  find  a 
coomfortaible  lodgin'  wi'  the  weedow  Macphair- 
son  a  wee  bittie  doon  the  road.  Her  dochter  is 
awa'  in  Ameriky,  an'  the  room  is  a  verra  fine 
room,  an'  it  is  a  peety  to  hae  it  stannin'  idle, 
an'  ye  wudna  mind  the  few  steps  to  and  fro  tae 
yir  meals  here,  sir,  wud  ye?  An'  if  ye  'ill 
gang  wi'  me  efter  dinner,  'a '11  be  prood  to  shoo 
ye  the  hoose." 

99 


A  HANDFUL  OF  HEATHER 

So,  after  a  good  dinner  with  the  English 
fishermen,  Sandy  piloted  me  down  the  road 
through  the  thickening  dusk.  I  remember  a 
hoodie  crow  flew  close  behind  us  with  a  chok 
ing,  ghostly  cough  that  startled  me.  The  Mac- 
pherson  cottage  was  a  snug  little  house  of  stone, 
with  fuchsias  and  roses  growing  in  the  front 
yard :  and  the  widow  was  a  douce  old  lady,  with 
a  face  like  a  winter  apple  in  the  month  of  April, 
wrinkled,  but  still  rosy.  She  was  a  little  doubt 
ful  about  entertaining  strangers,  but  when  she 
heard  I  was  from  America  she  opened  the  doors 
of  her  house  and  her  heart.  And  when,  by  a 
subtle  cross  examination  that  would  have  been 
a  credit  to  the  wife  of  a  Connecticut  deacon, 
she  discovered  the  fact  that  her  lodger  was  a 
minister,  she  did  two  things,  with  equal  and  im 
mediate  fervour;  she  brought  out  the  big  Bible 
and  asked  him  to  conduct  evening  worship,  and 
she  produced  a  bottle  of  old  Glenlivet  and 
begged  him  to  "  guard  against  takkin'  cauld  by 
takkin'  a  glass  of  speerits." 

It  was  a  very  pleasant  fortnight  at  Melvich. 
Mistress  Macpherson  was  so  motherly  that  "  tak 
kin  cauld  "  was  reduced  to  a  permanent  impos 
sibility.  The  other  men  at  the  inn  proved  to  be 
very  companionable  fellows,  quite  different  from 
the  monsters  of  insolence  that  my  anger  had 
imagined  in  the  moment  of  disappointment.  The 
100 


A  HANDFUL  OF  HEATHER 

shooting  party  kept  the  table  abundantly  sup 
plied  with  grouse  and  hares  and  highland  ven 
ison;  and  there  was  a  piper  to  march  up  and 
down  before  the  window  and  play  while  we  ate 
dinner  —  a  very  complimentary  and  disquieting 
performance.  But  there  are  many  occasions  in 
life  when  pride  can  be  entertained  only  at  the 
expense  of  comfort. 

Of  course  Sandy  was  my  gillie.  It  was  a  fine 
sight  to  see  him  exhibiting  the  tiny  American 
trout-rod,  tied  with  silk  ribbons  in  its  delicate 
case,  to  the  other  gillies  and  exulting  over  them. 
Every  morning  he  would  lead  me  away  through 
the  heather  to  some  lonely  loch  on  the  shoulders 
of  the  hills,  from  which  we  could  look  down 
upon  the  Northern  Sea  and  the  blue  Orkney 
Isles  far  away  across  the  Pentland  Firth.  Some 
times  we  would  find  a  loch  with  a  boat  on  it, 
and  drift  up  and  down,  casting  along  the  shores. 
Sometimes,  in  spite  of  Sandy's  confident  predic 
tions,  no  boat  could  be  found,  and  then  I  must 
put  on  the  Mackintosh  trousers  and  wade  out 
over  my  hips  into  the  water,  and  circumambu 
late  the  pond,  throwing  the  flies  as  far  as  possible 
towards  the  middle,  and  feeling  my  way  carefully 
along  the  bottom  with  the  long  net-handle,  while 
Sandy  danced  on  the  bank  in  an  agony  of  appre 
hension  lest  his  Predestinated  Opportunity  should 
step  into  a  deep  hole  and  be  drowned.  It  was 
101 


A  HANDFUL  OF  HEATHER 

a  curious  fact  in  natural  history  that  on  the 
lochs  with  boats  the  trout  were  in  the  shallow 
water,  but  in  the  boatless  lochs  they  were  away 
out  in  the  depths.  "  Juist  the  total  depraivity 
o'  troots,"  said  Sandy,  "  an'  terrible  fateegin'." 

Sandy  had  an  aversion  to  commit  himself  to 
definite  statements  on  any  subject  not  theologi 
cal.  If  you  asked  him  how  long  the  morning's 
tramp  would  be,  it  was  "no  verra  long,  juist 
a  bit  ayant  the  hull  yonner."  And  if,  at  the 
end  of  the  seventh  mile,  you  complained  that  it 
was  much  too  far,  he  would  never  do  more  than 
admit  that  "  it  micht  be  shorter."  If  you  called 
him  to  rejoice  over  a  trout  that  weighed  close 
upon  two  pounds,  he  allowed  that  it  was  "no 
bad  —  but  there 's  bigger  anes  i'  the  loch  gin  we 
cud  but  wile  them  oot."  And  at  lunch-time, 
when  we  turned  out  a  full  basket  of  shining 
fish  on  the  heather,  the  most  that  he  would  say, 
while  his  eyes  snapped  with  joy  and  pride,  was, 
"Aweel,  we  canna  complain,  the  day." 

Then  he  would  gather  an  armful  of  dried 
heather-stems  for  kindling,  and  dig  out  a  few 
roots  and  crooked  limbs  of  the  long-vanished 
forest  from  the  dry,  brown,  peaty  soil,  and  make 
our  camp-fire  of  prehistoric  wood  —  just  for  the 
pleasant,  homelike  look  of  the  blaze  —  and  sit 
down  beside  it  to  eat  our  lunch.  Heat  is  the 
least  of  the  benefits  that  man  gets  from  fire.  It 
102 


A  HANDFUL  OF  HEATHER 

is  the  sign  of  cheerfulness  and  good  comrade 
ship.  I  would  not  willingly  satisfy  my  hunger, 
even  in  a  summer  nooning,  without  a  little  flame 
burning  on  a  rustic  altar  to  consecrate  and 
enliven  the  feast.  When  the  bread  and  cheese 
were  finished  and  the  pipes  were  filled  with 
Virginia  tobacco,  Sandy  would  begin  to  tell  me, 
very  solemnly  and  respectfully,  about  the  mis 
takes  I  had  made  in  the  fishing  that  day,  and 
mourn  over  the  fact  that  the  largest  fish  had 
not  been  hooked.  There  was  a  strong  strain  of 
pessimism  in  Sandy,  and  he  enjoyed  this  part  of 
the  sport  immensely. 

But  he  was  at  his  best  in  the  walk  home 
through  the  lingering  twilight,  when  the  mur 
mur  of  the  sea  trembled  through  the  air,  and 
the  incense  of  burning  peat  floated  up  from  the 
cottages,  and  the  stars  blossomed  one  by  one  in 
the  pale-green  sky.  Then  Sandy  dandered  on 
at  his  ease  down  the  hills,  and  discoursed  of 
things  in  heaven  and  earth.  He  was  an  un 
conscious  follower  of  the  theology  of  the  Rever 
end  John  Jasper,  of  Richmond,  Virginia,  and  re 
jected  the  Copernican  theory  of  the  universe  as 
inconsistent  with  the  history  of  Joshua.  "  Gin 
the  sun  doesna  muve,"  said  he,  "  what  for  wad 
Joshua  be  tellin'  him  to  stond  steel  ?  'A  wad 
suner  beleeve  there  was  a  mistak'  in  the  veesi- 
ble  heevens  than  ae  fault  in  the  Guid  Buik." 
103 


A  HANDFUL  OF  HEATHER 

Whereupon  we  held  long  discourse  of  astronomy 
and  inspiration;  but  Sandy  concluded  it  with 
a  philosophic  word  which  left  little  to  be  said : 
"Aweel,  yon  teelescope  is  a  wonnerful  deescov- 
ery;  but  'a  dinna  think  the  less  o'  the  Baible." 

in. 

WHITE   HEATHER. 

Memory  is  a  capricious  and  arbitrary  crea 
ture.  You  never  can  tell  what  pebble  she  will 
pick  up  from  the  shore  of  life  to  keep  among 
her  treasures,  or  what  inconspicuous  flower  of 
the  field  she  will  preserve  as  the  symbol  of 

"  Thoughts  that  do  often  lie  too  deep  for  tears." 

She  has  her  own  scale  of  values  for  these  memen 
tos,  and  knows  nothing  of  the  market  price  of 
precious  stones  or  the  costly  splendour  of  rare 
orchids.  The  thing  that  pleases  her  is  the  thing 
that  she  will  hold  fast.  And  yet  I  do  not  doubt 
that  the  most  important  things  are  always  the 
best  remembered ;  only  we  must  learn  that  the 
real  importance  of  what  we  see  and  hear  in  the 
world  is  to  be  measured  at  last  by  its  mean 
ing,  its  significance,  its  intimacy  with  the  heart 
of  our  heart  and  the  life  of  our  life.  And  when 
we  find  a  little  token  of  the  past  very  safely 
and  imperishably  kept  among  our  recollections, 
104 


A  HANDFUL  OF  HEATHER 

we  must  believe  that  memory  has  made  no  mis 
take.  It  is  because  that  little  thing  has  entered 
into  our  experience  most  deeply,  that  it  stays 
with  us  and  we  cannot  lose  it. 

You  have  half  forgotten  many  a  famous  scene 
that  you  travelled  far  to  look  upon.  You  can 
not  clearly  recall  the  sublime  peak  of  Mont 
Blanc,  the  roaring  curve  of  Niagara,  the  vast 
dome  of  St.  Peter's.  The  music  of  Patti's  crys 
talline  voice  has  left  no  distinct  echo  in  your 
remembrance,  and  the  blossoming  of  the  century- 
plant  is  dimmer  than  the  shadow  of  a  dream. 
But  there  is  a  nameless  valley  among  the  hills 
where  you  can  still  trace  every  curve  of  the 
stream,  and  see  the  foam-bells  floating  on  the 
pool  below  the  bridge,  and  the  long  moss  waver 
ing  in  the  current.  There  is  a  rustic  song  of 
a  girl  passing  through  the  fields  at  sunset,  that 
still  repeats  its  far-off  cadence  in  your  listening 
ears.  There  is  a  small  flower  trembling  on  its 
stem  in  some  hidden  nook  beneath  the  open  sky, 
that  never  withers  through  all  the  changing 
years ;  the  wind  passeth  over  it,  but  it  is  not 
gone  —  it  abides  forever  in  your  soul,  an  ama 
ranthine  word  of  beauty  and  truth. 

White  heather  is  not  an  easy  flower  to  find. 
You  may  look  for  it  among  the  highlands  for 
a  day  without  success.  And  when  it  is  discov 
ered,  there  is  little  outward  charm  to  commend 
105 


A  HANDFUL  OF  HEATHER 

it.  It  lacks  the  grace  of  the  dainty  bells  that 
hang  so  abundantly  from  the  Erica  Tetralix, 
and  the  pink  glow  of  the  innumerable  blossoms 
of  the  common  heather.  But  then  it  is  a  symbol. 
It  is  the  Scotch  Edelweiss.  It  means  sincere 
affection,  and  unselfish  love,  and  tender  wishes 
as  pure  as  prayers.  I  shall  always  remember 
the  evening  when  I  found  the  white  heather  on 
the  moorland  above  Glen  Ericht.  Or,  rather, 
it  was  not  I  that  found  it  (for  I  have  little  luck 
in  the  discovery  of  good  omens,  and  have  never 
plucked  a  four-leaved  clover  in  my  life),  but 
my  companion,  the  gentle  Mistress  of  the  Glen, 
whose  hair  was  whiter  than  the  tiny  blossoms, 
and  yet  whose  eyes  were  far  quicker  than  mine 
to  see  and  name  every  flower  that  bloomed  in 
those  lofty,  widespread  fields. 

Ericht  Water  is  formed  by  the  marriage  of 
two  streams,  one  flowing  out  of  Strath  Ardle 
and  the  other  descending  from  Cairn  Gowar 
through  the  long,  lonely  Pass  of  Glenshee.  The 
Ericht  begins  at  the  bridge  of  Cally,  and  its 
placid,  beautiful  glen,  unmarred  by  railway  or 
factory,  reaches  almost  down  to  Blairgowrie. 
On  the  southern  bank,  but  far  above  the  water, 
runs  the  high  road  to  Braemar  and  the  Linn 
of  Dee.  On  the  other  side  of  the  river,  nestling 
among  the  trees,  is  the  low  white  manor-house, 

"An  ancient  home  of  peace." 
106 


A  HANDFUL  OF  HEATHER 

It  is  a  place  where  one  who  had  been  wearied 
and  perchance  sore  wounded  in  the  battle  of  life 
might  well  desire  to  be  carried,  as  Arthur  to  the 
island  valley  of  Avilion,  for  rest  and  healing. 

I  have  no  thought  of  renewing  the  conflicts 
and  cares  that  filled  that  summer  with  sorrow. 
There  were  fightings  without  and  fears  within; 
there  was  the  surrender  of  an  enterprise  that 
had  been  cherished  since  boyhood,  and  the  bitter 
sense  of  irremediable  weakness  that  follows  such 
a  reverse ;  there  was  a  touch  of  that  wrath  with 
those  we  love,  which,  as  Coleridge  says, 

"  Doth  work  like  madness  in  the  brain; " 

and,  flying  from  these  troubles  across  the  sea, 
I  had  found  my  old  comrade  of  merrier  days  sen 
tenced  to  death,  and  caught  but  a  brief  glimpse 
of  his  pale,  brave  face  as  he  went  away  into 
exile.  At  such  a  time  the  sun  and  the  light 
and  the  moon  and  the  stars  are  darkened,  and 
the  clouds  return  after  rain.  But  through  those 
clouds  the  Mistress  of  the  Glen  came  to  meet 
me  —  a  stranger  till  then,  but  an  appointed  friend, 
a  minister  of  needed  grace,  an  angel  of  quiet 
comfort.  The  thick  mists  of  rebellion,  mistrust, 
and  despair  have  long  since  rolled  away,  and 
against  the  background  of  the  hills  her  figure 
stands  out  clearly,  dressed  in  the  fashion  of  fifty 
years  ago,  with  the  snowy  hair  gathered  close 
107 


A  HANDFUL  OF  HEATHER 

beneath  her  widow's  cap,  and  a  spray  of  white 
heather  in  her  outstretched  hand. 

There  were  no  other  guests  in  the  house  by 
the  river  during  those  still  days  in  the  noontide 
hush  of  midsummer.  Every  morning,  while  the 
Mistress  was  busied  with  her  household  cares 
and  letters,  I  would  be  out  in  the  fields  hearing 
the  lark  sing,  and  watching  the  rabbits  as  they 
ran  to  and  fro,  scattering  the  dew  from  the 
grass  in  a  glittering  spray.  Or  perhaps  I  would 
be  angling  down  the  river  with  the  swift  press 
ure  of  the  water  around  my  knees,  and  an  in 
articulate  current  of  cooling  thoughts  flowing  on 
and  on  through  my  brain  like  the  murmur  of 
the  stream.  Every  afternoon  there  were  long 
walks  with  the  Mistress  in  the  old-fashioned 
garden,  where  wonderful  roses  were  blooming; 
or  through  the  dark,  fir-shaded  den  where  the 
wild  burn  dropped  down  to  join  the  river;  or 
out  upon  the  high  moor  under  the  waning  orange 
sunset.  Every  night  there  were  luminous  and 
restful  talks  beside  the  open  fire  in  the  library, 
when  the  words  came  clear  and  calm  from  the 
heart,  unperturbed  by  the  vain  desire  of  saying 
brilliant  things,  which  turns  so  much  of  our  con 
versation  into  a  combat  of  wits  instead  of  an 
interchange  of  thoughts.  Talk  like  this  is  pos 
sible  only  between  two.  The  arrival  of  a  third 
person  sets  the  lists  for  a  tournament,  and  offers 
108 


A  HANDFUL  OF  HEATHER 

the  prize  of  approbation  for  a  verbal  victory. 
But  where  there  are  only  two,  the  armor  is  laid 
aside,  and  there  is  no  call  to  thrust  and  parry. 

One  of  the  two  should  be  a  good  listener, 
sympathetic,  but  not  silent,  giving  confidence 
in  order  to  attract  it — and  of  this  art  a  woman 
is  the  best  master.  But  its  finest  secrets  do  not 
come  to  her  until  she  has  passed  beyond  the  un 
certain  season  of  compliments  and  conquests, 
and  entered  into  the  serenity  of  a  tranquil  age. 

What  is  this  foolish  thing  that  men  say  about 
the  impossibility  of  true  intimacy  and  converse 
between  the  young  and  the  old?  Hamerton, 
for  example,  in  his  book  on  "Human  Inter 
course,"  would  have  us  believe  that  a  difference 
in  years  is  a  barrier  between  hearts.  For  my 
part,  I  have  more  often  found  it  an  open  door, 
and  a  security  of  generous  and  tolerant  welcome 
for  the  young  soldier,  who  comes  in  tired  and 
dusty  from  the  battle-field,  to  tell  his  story  of 
defeat  or  victory  in  the  garden  of  still  thoughts 
where  old  age  is  resting  in  the  peace  of  hon 
ourable  discharge.  I  like  what  Robert  Louis 
Stevenson  says  about  it  in  his  essay  on  Talk 
and  Talkers. 

"Not  only  is  the  presence  of  the  aged  in  itself 
remedial,  but  their  minds  are  stored  with  an 
tidotes,  wisdom's   simples,  plain  considerations 
overlooked   by   youth.      They   have   matter   to 
109 


A  HANDFUL  OF  HEATHER 

communicate,  be  they  never  so  stupid.  Their 
talk  is  not  merely  literature,  it  is  great  litera 
ture  ;  classic  by  virtue  of  the  speaker's  detach 
ment;  studded,  like  a  book  of  travel,  with 
things  we  should  not  otherwise  have  learnt. 
.  .  .  Where  youth  agrees  with  age,  not  where 
they  differ,  wisdom  lies;  and  it  is  when  the 
young  disciple  finds  his  heart  to  beat  in  tune 
with  his  gray-haired  teacher's  that  a  lesson  may 
be  learned." 

The  conversation  of  the  Mistress  of  the  Glen 
shone  like  the  light  and  distilled  like  the  dew, 
not  only  by  virtue  of  what  she  said,  but  still 
more  by  virtue  of  what  she  was.  Her  face  was 
a  good  counsel  against  discouragement ;  and  the 
cheerful  quietude  of  her  demeanor  was  a  rebuke 
to  all  rebellious,  cowardly,  and  discontented 
thoughts.  It  was  not  the  striking  novelty  or 
profundity  of  her  commentary  on  life  that  made 
it  memorable,  it  was  simply  the  truth  of  what 
she  said  and  the  gentleness  with  which  she  said 
it.  Epigrams  are  worth  little  for  guidance  to 
the  perplexed,  and  less  for  comfort  to  the 
wounded.  But  the  plain,  homely  sayings  which 
come  from  a  soul  that  has  learned  the  lesson  of 
patient  courage  in  the  school  of  real  experience, 
fall  upon  the  wound  like  drops  of  balsam,  and 
like  a  soothing  lotion  upon  the  eyes  smarting 
and  blinded  with  passion. 
110 


A  HANDFUL  OF  HEATHER 

She  spoke  of  those  who  had  walked  with  her 
long  ago  in  her  garden,  and  for  whose  sake,  now 
that  they  had  all  gone  into  the  world  of  light, 
every  flower  was  doubly  dear.  Would  it  be  a 
true  proof  of  loyalty  to  them  if  she  lived  gloom 
ily  or  despondently  because  they  were  away? 
She  spoke  of  the  duty  of  being  ready  to  welcome 
happiness  as  well  as  to  endure  pain,  and  of  the 
strength  that  endurance  wins  by  being  grateful 
for  small  daily  joys,  like  the  evening  light,  and 
the  smell  of  roses,  and  the  singing  of  birds. 
She  spoke  of  the  faith  that  rests  on  the  Unseen 
Wisdom  and  Love  like  a  child  on  its  mother's 
breast,  and  the  melting  away  of  doubts  in  the 
warmth  of  an  effort  to  do  some  good  in  the 
world.  And  if  that  effort  has  conflict,  and  ad 
venture,  and  confused  noise,  and  mistakes,  and 
even  clef  eats  mingled  with  it,  in  the  stormy  years 
of  youth,  is  not  that  to  be  expected  ?  The  burn 
roars  and  leaps  in  the  den,  and  the  stream  chafes 
and  frets  through  the  rapids  of  the  glen,  and 
the  river  does  not  grow  calm  and  smooth  until 
it  nears  the  sea.  Courage  is  a  virtue  that  the 
young  cannot  spare ;  to  lose  it  is  to  grow  old  be 
fore  the  time ;  it  is  better  to  make  a  thousand 
mistakes  and  suffer  a  thousand  reverses  than  to 
run  away  from  the  battle.  Eesignation  is  the 
courage  of  old  age  ;  it  will  grow  in  its  own  sea 
son  ;  and  it  is  a  good  day  when  it  comes  to  us. 
Ill 


A  HANDFUL  OF  HEATHER 

Then  there  are  no  more  disappointments  ;  for  we 
have  learned  that  it  is  even  better  to  desire  the 
things  that  we  have  than  to  have  the  things  that 
we  desire.  And  is  not  the  best  of  all  our  hopes 
—  the  hope  of  immortality  —  always  before  us  ? 
How  can  we  be  dull  or  heavy  while  we  have  that 
new  experience  to  look  forward  to  ?  It  will  be 
the  most  joyful  of  all  our  travels  and  adventures. 
It  will  bring  us  our  best  acquaintances  and 
friendships.  But  there  is  only  one  way  to  get 
ready  for  immortality,  and  that  is  to  love  this 
life,  and  live  it  as  bravely  and  cheerfully  and 
faithfully  as  we  can. 

So  my  gentle  teacher  with  the  silver  hair 
showed  me  the  treasures  of  her  ancient,  simple 
faith ;  and  I  felt  that  no  sermons,  nor  books,  nor 
arguments  can  strengthen  the  doubting  heart  so 
deeply  as  just  to  come  into  touch  with  a  soul 
that  is  founded  upon  a  rock,  and  has  proved  the 
truth  of  that  plain  religion  whose  highest  phi 
losophy  is  "  Trust  in  the  Lord  and  do  good." 
At  the  end  of  the  evening  the  household  was 
gathered  for  prayers,  and  the  Mistress  kneeled 
among  her  servants,  leading  them,  in  her  soft 
Scottish  accent,  through  the  old  familiar  peti 
tions  for  pardon  for  the  errors  of  the  day,  and 
refreshing  sleep  through  the  night  and  strength 
for  the  morrow.  It  is  good  to  be  in  a  land, 
whatever  be  the  name  of  the  Church  that  teaches 
112 


A  HANDFUL  OF  HEATHER 

it,  where  the  people  are  not  ashamed  to  pray.  I 
have  shared  the  blessing  of  Catholics  at  their 
table  in  lowly  huts  among  the  mountains  of  the 
Tyrol,  and  knelt  with  Covenanters  at  their  house 
hold  altar  in  the  glens  of  Scotland;  and  all 
around  the  world,  where  the  spirit  of  prayer  is, 
there  is  peace.  The  genius  of  the  Scotch  has 
made  many  and  great  contributions  to  literature, 
but  none  I  think,  more  precious,  and  none  that 
comes  closer  to  the  heart,  than  the  prayer  which 
Robert  Louis  Stevenson  wrote  for  his  family  in 
distant  Samoa,  the  night  before  he  died :  — 

"  We  beseech  thee,  Lord,  to  behold  us  with  favour, 
folk  of  many  families  and  nations,  gathered  together 
in  the  peace  of  this  roof :  weak  men  and  women  sub 
sisting  under  the  covert  of  thy  patience.  Be  patient 
still ;  suffer  us  yet  a  while  longer  —  with  our  broken 
promises  of  good,  with  our  idle  endeavours  against 
evil  —  suffer  us  a  while  longer  to  endure,  and  (if  it 
may  be)  help  us  to  do  better.  Bless  to  us  our  extra 
ordinary  mercies ;  if  the  day  come  when  these  must 
be  taken,  have  us  play  the  man  under  affliction.  Be 
with  our  friends,  be  with  ourselves.  Go  with  each  of 
us  to  rest ;  if  any  awake,  temper  to  them  the  dark 
hours  of  watching ;  and  when  the  day  returns  to  us  — 
our  sun  and  comforter  —  call  us  with  morning  faces, 
eager  to  labour,  eager  to  be  happy,  if  happiness  shall 
be  our  portion,  and,  if  the  day  be  marked  to  sorrow, 
strong  to  endure  it.  We  thank  thee  and  praise  thee  ; 
113 


A  HANDFUL  OF  HEATHER 

and,  in  the  words  of  Him  to  whom  this  day  is  sacred, 
close  our  oblation." 

The  man  who  made  that  kindly  human  prayer 
knew  the  meaning  of  white  heather.  And  I 
dare  to  hope  that  I  too  have  known  something  of 
its  meaning,  since  that  evening  when  the  Mis 
tress  of  the  Glen  picked  the  spray  and  gave  it  to 
me  on  the  lonely  moor.  "  And  now,"  she  said, 
"  you  will  be  going  home  across  the  sea ;  and  you 
have  been  welcome  here,  but  it  is  time  that  you 
should  go,  for  there  is  the  place  where  your  real 
duties  and  troubles  and  joys  are  waiting  for  you. 
And  if  you  have  left  any  misunderstandings 
behind  you,  you  will  try  to  clear  them  up ;  and 
if  there  have  been  any  quarrels,  you  will  heal 
them.  Carry  this  little  flower  with  you.  It 's 
not  the  bonniest  blossom  in  Scotland,  but  it 's  the 
dearest,  for  the  message  that  it  brings.  And 
you  will  remember  that  love  is  not  getting,  but 
giving ;  not  a  wild  dream  of  pleasure,  and  a 
madness  of  desire  —  oh  no,  love  is  not  that  —  it 
is  goodness,  and  honour,  and  peace,  and  pure  liv 
ing  —  yes,  love  is  that ;  and  it  is  the  best  thing 
in  the  world,  and  the  thing  that  lives  longest. 
And  that  is  what  I  am  wishing  for  you  and 
yours  with  this  bit  of  white  heather." 
114 


THE    RESTIGOUCHE    FROM    A   HORSE- 
YACHT 


1  Dr.  Paley  was  ardently  attached  to  this  amusement  ;  so  much  so,  that 
when  the  Bishop  of  Durham  inquired  of  him  when  one  of  his  most  im 
portant  works  would  be  finished,  he  said,  with  great  simplicity  and 
good  humour,  '  My  Lord,  I  shall  work  steadily  at  it  when  the  fly-fish 
ing  season  is  over,'  "  —  SIR  HUMPHRY  DAVY  :  Salmonia. 


THE  RESTIGOUCHE   FROM    A   HORSE- 
YACHT 

THE  boundary  line  between  the  Province  of 
Quebec  and  New  Brunswick,  for  a  considerable 
part  of  its  course,  resembles  the  name  of  the 
poet  Keats;  it  is  "writ  in  water."  But  like 
his  fame,  it  is  water  that  never  fails,  —  the 
limpid  current  of  the  river  Eestigouche. 

The  railway  crawls  over  it  on  a  long  bridge 
at  Metapedia,  and  you  are  dropped  in  the  dark 
ness  somewhere  between  midnight  and  dawn. 
When  you  open  your  green  window-shutters  the 
next  morning,  you  see  that  the  village  is  a  dis 
consolate  hamlet,  scattered  along  the  track  as 
if  it  had  been  shaken  by  chance  from  an  open 
freight-car ;  it  consists  of  twenty  houses,  three 
shops,  and  a  discouraged  church  perched  upon 
a  little  hillock  like  a  solitary  mourner  on  the 
anxious  seat.  The  one  comfortable  and  pros 
perous  feature  in  the  countenance  of  Metapedia 
is  the  house  of  the  Eestigouche  Salmon  Club 
—  an  old-fashioned  mansion,  with  broad,  white 
piazza,  looking  over  rich  meadow-lands.  Here 
117 


THE  EESTIGOUCHE 

it  was  that  I  found  my  friend  Favonius,  presi 
dent  of  solemn  societies,  pillar  of  ehiirch  and 
state,  ingenuously  arrayed  in  gray  knicker 
bockers,  a  flannel  shirt,  and  a  soft  hat,  waiting 
to  take  me  on  his  horse-yacht  for  a  voyage  up 
the  river. 

Have  you  ever  seen  a  horse-yacht?  Some 
times  it  is  called  a  scow  ;  but  that  sounds  com 
mon.  Sometimes  it  is  called  a  house-boat ;  but 
that  is  too  English.  What  does  it  profit  a  man 
to  have  a  whole  dictionary  full  of  language  at 
his  service,  unless  he  can  invent  a  new  and 
suggestive  name  for  his  friend's  pleasure-craft? 
The  foundation  of  the  horse-yacht  —  if  a  thing 
that  floats  may  be  called  fundamental  —  is  a  flat- 
bottomed  boat,  some  fifty  feet  long  and  ten  feet 
wide,  with  a  draft  of  about  eight  inches.  The 
deck  is  open  for  fifteen  feet  aft  of  the  place 
where  the  bowsprit  ought  to  be ;  behind  that  it 
is  completely  covered  by  a  house,  cabin,  cottage, 
or  whatever  you  choose  to  call  it,  with  straight 
sides  and  a  peaked  roof  of  a  very  early  Gothic 
pattern.  Looking  in  at  the  door  you  see,  first 
of  all,  two  cots,  one  on  either  side  of  the  pas 
sage;  then  an  open  space  with  a  dining-table, 
a  stove,  and  some  chairs ;  beyond  that  a  pantry 
with  shelves,  and  a  great  chest  for  provisions. 
A  door  at  the  back  opens  into  the  kitchen,  and 
from  that  another  door  opens  into  a  sleeping- 
118 


THE  RESTIGOUCHE 

room  for  the  boatmen.  A  huge  wooden  tiller 
curves  over  the  stern  of  the  boat,  and  the  helms 
man  stands  upon  the  kitchen-roof.  Two  canoes 
are  floating  behind,  holding  back,  at  the  end  of 
their  long  tow-ropes,  as  if  reluctant  to  follow  so 
clumsy  a  leader.  This  is  an  accurate  and  duly 
attested  description  of  the  horse-yacht.  If  nec 
essary  it  could  be  sworn  to  before  a  notary  pub 
lic.  But  I  am  perfectly  sure  that  you  might 
read  this  through  without  skipping  a  word,  and 
if  you  had  never  seen  the  creature  with  your 
own  eyes,  you  would  have  no  idea  how  absurd  it 
looks  and  how  comfortable  it  is. 

While  we  were  stowing  away  our  trunks  and 
bags  under  the  cots,  and  making  an  equitable 
division  of  the  hooks  upon  the  walls,  the  motive 
power  of  the  yacht  stood  patiently  upon  the 
shore,  stamping  a  hoof,  now  and  then,  or  shak 
ing  a  shaggy  head  in  mild  protest  against  the 
flies.  Three  more  pessimistic-looking  horses  I 
never  saw.  They  were  harnessed  abreast,  and 
fastened  by  a  prodigious  tow-rope  to  a  short 
post  in  the  middle  of  the  forward  deck.  Their 
driver  was  a  truculent,  brigandish,  bearded  old 
fellow  in  long  boots,  a  blue  flannel  shirt,  and  a 
black  sombrero.  He  sat  upon  the  middle  horse, 
and  some  wild  instinct  of  color  had  made  him 
tie  a  big  red  handkerchief  around  his  shoulders, 
so  that  the  eye  of  the  beholder  took  delight  in 
119 


THE  EESTIGOUCHE 

him.  He  posed  like  a  bold,  bad  robber-chief. 
But  in  point  of  fact  I  believe  he  was  the  mildest 
and  most  inoffensive  of  men.  We  never  heard 
him  say  anything  except  at  a  distance,  to  his 
horses,  and  we  did  not  inquire  what  that  was. 

Well,  as  I  have  said,  we  were  haggling  cour 
teously  over  those  hooks  in  the  cabin,  when  the 
boat  gave  a  lurch.  The  bow  swung  out  into  the 
stream.  There  was  a  scrambling  and  clattering 
of  iron  horse-shoes  on  the  rough  shingle  of  the 
bank;  and  when  we  looked  out  of  doors,  our 
house  was  moving  up  the  river  with  the  boat 
under  it. 

The  Eestigouche  is  a  noble  stream,  stately  and 
swift  and  strong.  It  rises  among  the  dense  for 
ests  in  the  northern  part  of  New  Brunswick  — 
a  moist  upland  region,  of  never-failing  springs 
and  innumerous  lakes  —  and  pours  a  flood  of 
clear,  cold  water  one  hundred  and  fifty  miles 
northward  and  eastward  through  the  hills  into 
the  head  of  the  Bay  of  Chaleurs.  There  are  no 
falls  in  its  course,  but  rapids  everywhere.  It  is 
steadfast  but  not  impetuous,  quick  but  not  tur 
bulent,  resolute  and  eager  in  its  desire  to  get  to 
the  sea,  like  the  life  of  a  man  who  has  a  pur 
pose 

"  Too  great  for  haste,  too  high  for  rivalry." 

The  wonder  is  where  all  the  water  comes  from. 

But  the  river  is  fed  by  more  than  six  thousand 

120 


THE  RESTIGOUCHE 

square  miles  of  territory.  From  both  sides  the 
little  brooks  come  dashing  in  with  their  supply. 
At  intervals  a  larger  stream,  reaching  away  back 
among  the  mountains  like  a  hand  with  many 
fingers  to  gather 

"  The  filtered  tribute  of  the  rough  woodland," 

delivers  its  generous  offering  to  the  main  cur 
rent.  And  this  also  is  like  a  human  life,  which 
receives  wealth  and  power  from  hidden  sources 
in  other  lives,  and  is  fed  abundantly  from  the 
past  in  order  that  it  may  feed  the  future. 

The  names  of  the  chief  tributaries  of  the  Ees- 
tigouche  are  curious.  There  is  the  headstrong 
Metapedia,  and  the  crooked  Upsalquitch,  and 
the  Patapedia,  and  the  Quatawamkedgwick. 
These  are  words  at  which  the  tongue  balks  at 
first,  but  you  soon  grow  used  to  them  and  learn 
to  take  anything  of  five  syllables  with  a  rush, 
as  a  hunter  takes  a  five-barred  gate,  trusting  to 
fortune  that  you  will  come  down  with  the  accent 
in  the  right  place. 

For  six  or  seven  miles  above  Metapedia  the 
river  has  a  breadth  of  about  two  hundred  yards, 
and  the  valley  slopes  back  rather  gently  to  the 
mountains  on  either  side.  There  is  a  good  deal 
of  cultivated  land,  and  scattered  farmhouses 
appear.  The  soil  is  excellent.  But  it  is  like 
a  pearl  cast  before  an  obstinate,  unfriendly 
121 


THE  EESTIGOUCHE 

climate.  Late  frosts  prolong  the  winter.  Early 
frosts  curtail  the  summer.  The  only  safe  crops 
are  grass,  oats,  and  potatoes.  And  for  half  the 
year  all  the  cattle  must  be  housed  and  fed  to 
keep  them  alive.  This  lends  a  melancholy 
aspect  to  agriculture.  Most  of  the  farmers 
look  as  if  they  had  never  seen  better  days. 
With  few  exceptions  they  are  what  a  New  Eng- 
lander  would  call  "  slack-twisted  and  shiftless." 
Their  barns  are  pervious  to  the  weather,  and 
their  fences  fail  to  connect.  Sleds  and  ploughs 
rust  together  beside  the  house,  and  chickens 
scratch  up  the  front-door  yard.  In  truth,  the 
people  have  been  somewhat  demoralized  by  the 
conflicting  claims  of  different  occupations ;  hunt 
ing  in  the  fall,  lumbering  in  the  winter  and 
spring,  and  working  for  the  American  sports 
men  in  the  brief  angling  season,  are  so  much 
more  attractive  and  offer  so  much  larger  returns 
of  ready  money,  that  the  tedious  toil  of  farming 
is  neglected.  But  for  all  that,  in  the  bright 
days  of  midsummer,  these  green  fields  sloping 
down  to  the  water,  and  pastures  high  up  among 
the  trees  on  the  hillsides,  look  pleasant  from  a 
distance,  and  give  an  inhabited  air  to  the  land 
scape. 

At  the  mouth  of  the  Upsalquitch  we  passed 
the  first  of  the  fishing-lodges.     Originally  the 
Restigouche  Salmon  Club  leased  the  whole  river 
122 


THE  EESTIGOUCHE 

from  the  Canadian  Government,  but  since  the 
establishment  of  riparian  rights,  a  few  years  ago, 
a  number  of  gentlemen  have  bought  land  front 
ing  on  good  pools,  and  put  up  little  cottages  of  a 
less  classical  style  than  Charles  Cotton's  "  Fisher 
man's  Retreat "  on  the  banks  of  the  River  Dove, 
but  better  suited  to  this  wild  scenery,  and  more 
convenient  to  live  in.  The  prevailing  pattern  is 
a  very  simple  one  ;  it  consists  of  a  broad  piazza 
with  a  small  house  in  the  middle  of  it.  The 
house  bears  about  the  same  proportion  to  the 
piazza  that  the  crown  of  a  Gainsborough  hat 
does  to  the  brim.  And  the  cost  of  the  edifice 
is  to  the  cost  of  the  land,  as  the  first  price  of 
a  share  in  a  bankrupt  railway  is  to  the  assess 
ments  which  follow  the  reorganization.  All  the 
best  points  have  been  sold,  and  real  estate  on 
the  Restigouche  has  been  bid  up  to  an  absurd 
figure.  In  fact,  the  river  is  over-populated 
and  probably  over-fished.  But  we  could  hardly 
find  it  in  our  hearts  to  regret  this,  for  it  made 
the  upward  trip  a  very  sociable  one.  At  every 
lodge  that  was  open,  Favonius  (who  knows 
everybody)  had  a  friend,  and  we  must  slip 
ashore  in  a  canoe  to  leave  the  mail  and  refresh 
the  inner  man. 

An  angler,  like  an  Arab,  regards  hospitality  as 
a  religious  duty.     There  seems  to  be  something 
in  the  craft  which  inclines  the  heart  to  kindness 
123 


THE  EESTIGOUCHE 

and  good-fellowship.  Few  anglers  have  I  seen 
who  were  not  pleasant  to  meet,  and  ready  to  do  a 
good  turn  to  a  fellow-fisherman  with  the  gift  of 
a  killing  fly  or  the  loan  of  a  rod.  Not  their  own 
particular  and  well-proved  favourite,  of  course, 
for  that  is  a  treasure  which  no  decent  man  would 
borrow;  but  with  that  exception  the  best  in  their 
store  is  at  the  service  of  an  accredited  brother. 
One  of  the  Kestigouche  proprietors  I  remember, 
whose  name  bespoke  him  a  descendant  of  Cale 
donia's  patron  saint.  He  was  fishing  in  front  of 
his  own  door  when  we  came  up,  with  our  splash 
ing  horses,  through  the  pool ;  but  nothing  would 
do  but  he  must  up  anchor  and  have  us  away 
with  him  into  the  house  to  taste  his  good  cheer. 
And  there  were  his  daughters  with  their  books 
and  needlework,  and  the  photographs  which 
they  had  taken  pinned  up  on  the  wooden  walls, 
among  Japanese  fans  and  bits  of  bright-coloured 
stuff  in  which  the  soul  of  woman  delights,  and, 
in  a  passive,  silent  way,  the  soul  of  man  also. 
Then,  after  we  had  discussed  the  year's  fishing, 
and  the  mysteries  of  the  camera,  and  the  deep 
question  of  what  makes  some  negatives  too  thin 
and  others  too  thick,  we  must  go  out  to  see  the 
big  salmon  which  one  of  the  ladies  had  caught 
a  few  days  before,  and  the  large  trout  swim 
ming  about  in  their  cold  spring.  It  seemed  to 
me,  as  we  went  on  our  way,  that  there  could 
124 


THE  EESTIGOUCHE 

hardly  be  a  more  wholesome  and  pleasant  sum 
mer-life  for  well-bred  young  women  than  this, 
or  two  amusements  more  innocent  and  sensible 
than  photography  and  fly-fishing. 

It  must  be  confessed  that  the  horse-yacht  as 
a  vehicle  of  travel  is  not  remarkable  in  point  of 
speed.  Three  miles  an  hour  is  not  a  very  rapid 
rate  of  motion.  But  then,  if  you  are  not  in 
a  hurry,  why  should  you  care  to  make  haste? 

The  wild  desire  to  be  forever  racing  against 
old  Father  Time  is  one  of  the  kill-joys  of  modern 
life.  That  ancient  traveller  is  sure  to  beat  you 
in  the  long  run,  and  as  long  as  you  are  trying 
to  rival  him,  he  will  make  your  life  a  burden. 
But  if  you  will  only  acknowledge  his  superiority 
and  profess  that  you  do  not  approve  of  racing 
after  all,  he  will  settle  down  quietly  beside  you 
and  jog  along  like  the  most  companionable  of 
creatures.  It  is  a  pleasant  pilgrimage  in  which 
the  journey  itself  is  part  of  the  destination. 

As  soon  as  one  learns  to  regard  the  horse- 
yacht  as  a  sort  of  moving  home,  it  appears 
admirable.  There  is  no  dust  or  smoke,  no  rum 
ble  of  wheels,  or  shriek  of  whistles.  You  are 
gliding  along  steadily  through  an  ever-green 
world;  skirting  the  silent  hills;  passing  from 
one  side  of  the  river  to  the  other  when  the 
horses  have  to  swim  the  current  to  find  a  good 
foothold  on  the  bank.  You  are  on  the  water, 
125 


THE  BESTIGOUCHE 

but  not  at  its  mercy,  for  your  craft  is  not  dis 
turbed  by  the  heaving  of  rude  waves,  and  the 
serene  inhabitants  do  not  say  "  I  am  sick." 
There  is  room  enough  to  move  about  without 
falling  overboard.  You  may  sleep,  or  read,  or 
write  in  your  cabin,  or  sit  upon  the  floating 
piazza  in  an  arm-chair  and  smoke  the  pipe  of 
peace,  while  the  cool  breeze  blows  in  your  face 
and  the  musical  waves  go  singing  down  to  the 


There  was  one  feature  about  the  boat,  which 
commended  itself  very  strongly  to  my  mind.  It 
was  possible  to  stand  upon  the  forward  deck 
and  do  a  little  trout-fishing  in  motion.  By 
watching  your  chance,  when  the  corner  of  a  good 
pool  was  within  easy  reach,  you  could  send  out 
a  hasty  line  and  cajole  a  sea-trout  from  his 
hiding-place.  It  is  true  that  the  tow-ropes  and 
the  post  made  the  back  cast  a  little  awkward  ; 
and  the  wind  sometimes  blew  the  flies  up  on  the 
roof  of  the  cabin  ;  but  then,  with  patience  and 
a  short  line  the  thing  could  be  done.  I  remem 
ber  a  pair  of  good  trout  that  rose  together  just 
as  we  were  going  through  a  boiling  rapid  ;  and 
it  tried  the  strength  of  my  split-bamboo  rod  to 
bring  those  fish  to  the  net  against  the  current 
and  the  motion  of  the  boat. 

When  nightfall  approached  we  let  go  the  an 
chor  (to  wit,  a  rope  tied  to  a  large  stone  on  the 
126 


THE  EESTIGOUCHE 

shore),  ate  our  dinner  "  with  gladness  and  sin 
gleness  of  heart "  like  the  early  Christians,  and 
slept  the  sleep  of  the  just,  lulled  by  the  mur 
muring  of  the  waters,  and  defended  from  the 
insidious  attacks  of  the  mosquito  by  the  breeze 
blowing  down  the  river  and  the  impregnable 
curtains  over  the  beds.  At  daybreak,  long  be 
fore  Favonius  and  I  had  finished  our  dreams,  we 
were  under  way  again ;  and  when  the  trampling 
of  the  horses  on  some  rocky  shore  wakened  us, 
we  could  see  the  steep  hills  gliding  past  the  win 
dows  and  hear  the  rapids  dashing  against  the  side 
of  the  boat,  and  it  seemed  as  if  we  were  still 
dreaming. 

At  Cross  Point,  where  the  river  makes  a  long 
loop  around  a  narrow  mountain,  thin  as  a  saw 
and  crowned  on  its  jagged  edge  by  a  rude 
wooden  cross,  we  stopped  for  an  hour  to  try  the 
fishing.  It  was  here  that  I  hooked  two  myste 
rious  creatures,  each  of  which  took  the  fly  when 
it  was  below  the  surface,  pulled  for  a  few  mo 
ments  in  a  sullen  way  and  then  apparently 
melted  into  nothingness.  It  will  always  be  a 
source  of  regret  to  me  that  the  nature  of  these 
animals  must  remain  unknown.  While  they 
were  on  the  line  it  was  the  general  opinion  that 
they  were  heavy  trout ;  but  no  sooner  had  they 
departed,  than  I  became  firmly  convinced,  in 
accordance  with  a  psychological  law  which  holds 
127 


THE  BESTIGOUCHE 

good  all  over  the  world,  that  they  were  both  enor 
mous  salmon.  Even  the  Turks  have  a  proverb 
which  says,  "  Every  fish  that  escapes  appears 
larger  than  it  is."  No  one  can  alter  that  con 
viction,  because  no  one  can  logically  refute  it. 
Our  best  blessings,  like  our  largest  fish,  always 
depart  before  we  have  time  to  measure  them. 

The  Slide  Pool  is  in  the  wildest  and  most  pic 
turesque  part  of  the  river,  about  thirty-five  miles 
above  Metapedia.  The  stream,  flowing  swiftly 
down  a  stretch  of  rapids  between  forest-clad 
hills,  runs  straight  toward  the  base  of  an  emi 
nence  so  precipitous  that  the  trees  can  hardly 
find  a  foothold  upon  it,  and  seem  to  be  climbing 
up  in  haste  on  either  side  of  the  long  slide  which 
leads  to  the  summit.  The  current,  barred  by 
the  wall  of  rock,  takes  a  great  sweep  to  the  right, 
dashing  up  at  first  in  angry  waves,  then  falling 
away  in  oily  curves  and  eddies,  until  at  last  it 
sleeps  in  a  black  deep,  apparently  almost  motion 
less,  at  the  foot  of  the  hill.  It  was  here,  on  the 
upper  edge  of  the  stream,  opposite  to  the  slide, 
that  we  brought  our  floating  camp  to  anchor  for 
some  days.  What  does  one  do  in  such  a  water 
ing-place  ? 

Let  us  take  a  "  specimen  day."     It  is  early 

morning,  or  to  be  more  precise,  about  eight  of 

the  clock,  and  the  white  fog  is  just  beginning  to 

curl  and  drift  away  from  the  surface  of  the  river. 

128 


THE  RESTIGOUCHE 

Sooner  than  this  it  would  be  idle  to  go  out.  The 
preternaturally  early  bird  in  his  greedy  haste 
may  catch  the  worm  ;  but  the  fly  is  never  taken 
until  the  fog  has  lifted ;  and  in  this  the  scientific 
angler  sees,  with  gratitude,  a  remarkable  adap 
tation  of  the  laws  of  nature  to  the  tastes  of  man. 
The  canoes  are  waiting  at  the  front  door.  We 
step  into  them  and  push  off,  Favonius  going  up 
the  stream  a  couple  of  miles  to  the  mouth  of  the 
Patapedia,  and  I  down,  a  little  shorter  distance, 
to  the  famous  Indian  House  Pool.  The  slim  boat 
glides  easily  on  the  current,  with  a  smooth  buoy 
ant  motion,  quickened  by  the  strokes  of  the  pad 
dles  in  the  bow  and  the  stern.  We  pass  around 
two  curves  in  the  river  and  find  ourselves  at  the 
head  of  the  pool.  Here  the  man  in  the  stern 
drops  the  anchor,  just  on  the  edge  of  the  bar 
where  the  rapid  breaks  over  into  the  deeper 
water.  The  long  rod  is  lifted ;  the  fly  unhooked 
from  the  reel ;  a  few  feet  of  line  pulled  through 
the  rings,  and  the  fishing  begins. 

First  cast,  —  to  the  right,  straight  across  the 
stream,  about  twenty  feet :  the  current  carries 
the  fly  down  with  a  semicircular  sweep,  until  it 
comes  in  line  with  the  bow  of  the  canoe.  Second 
cast,  —  to  the  left,  straight  across  the  stream, 
with  the  same  motion :  the  semicircle  is  com 
pleted,  and  the  fly  hangs  quivering  for  a  few 
seconds  at  the  lowest  point  of  the  arc.  Three 
129 


THE  EESTIGOUCHE 

or  four  feet  of  line  are  drawn  from  the  reel. 
Third  cast  to  the  right ;  fourth  cast  to  the  left. 
Then  a  little  more  line.  And  so,  with  widening 
half-circles,  the  water  is  covered,  gradually  and 
very  carefully,  until  at  length  the  angler  has  as 
much  line  out  as  his  two-handed  rod  can  lift  and 
swing.  Then  the  first  "  drop  "  is  finished  ;  the 
man  in  the  stern  quietly  pulls  up  the  anchor  and 
lets  the  boat  drift  down  a  few  yards ;  the  same 
process  is  repeated  on  the  second  drop ;  and  so 
on,  until  the  end  of  the  run  is  reached  and  the 
fly  has  passed  over  all  the  good  water.  This 
seems  like  a  very  regular  and  somewhat  mechan 
ical  proceeding  as  one  describes  it,  but  in  the 
performance  it  is  rendered  intensely  interesting 
by  the  knowledge  that  at  any  moment  it  is  liable 
to  be  interrupted. 

This  morning  the  interruption  comes  early. 
At  the  first  cast  of  the  second  drop,  before  the 
fly  has  fairly  lit,  a  great  flash  of  silver  darts 
from  the  waves  close  by  the  boat.  Usually  a 
salmon  takes  the  fly  rather  slowly,  carrying  it 
under  water  before  he  seizes  it  in  his  mouth. 
But  this  one  is  in  no  mood  for  deliberation. 
He  has  hooked  himself  with  a  rush,  and  the  line 
goes  whirring  madly  from  the  reel  as  he  races 
down  the  pool.  Keep  the  point  of  the  rod  low ; 
he  must  have  his  own  way  now.  Up  with  the 
anchor  quickly,  and  send  the  canoe  after  him, 
130 


THE  BESTIGOUCHE 

bowman  and  sternman  paddling  with  swift 
strokes.  He  has  reached  the  deepest  water  ;  he 
stops  to  think  what  has  happened  to  him;  we 
have  passed  around  and  below  him  ;  and  now, 
with  the  current  to  help  us,  we  can  begin  to  reel 
in.  Lift  the  point  of  the  rod,  with  a  strong, 
steady  pull.  Put  the  force  of  both  arms  into  it. 
The  tough  wood  will  stand  the  strain.  The  fish 

O 

must  be  moved ;  he  must  come  to  the  boat  if  he 
is  ever  to  be  landed.  He  gives  a  little  and 
yields  slowly  to  the  pressure.  Then  suddenly 
he  gives  too  much,  and  runs  straight  toward  us. 
Keel  in  now  as  swiftly  as  possible,  or  else  he 
will  get  a  slack  on  the  line  and  escape.  Now 
he  stops,  shakes  his  head  from  side  to  side, 
and  darts  away  again  across  the  pool,  leaping 
high  out  of  water.  Drop  the  point  of  the  rod 
quickly,  for  if  he  falls  on  the  leader  he  will 
surely  break  it.  Another  leap,  and  another ! 
Truly  he  is  "a  merry  one,"  as  Sir  Humphry 
Davy  says,  and  it  will  go  hard  with  us  to  hold 
him.  But  those  great  leaps  have  exhausted  his 
strength,  and  now  he  follows  the  line  more 
easily.  The  men  push  the  boat  back  to  the  shal 
low  side  of  the  pool  until  it  touches  lightly  on 
the  shore.  The  fish  comes  slowly  in,  fighting  a 
little  and  making  a  few  short  runs ;  he  is  tired 
and  turns  slightly  on  his  side ;  but  even  yet  he 
is  a  heavy  weight  on  the  line,  and  it  seems  a 
131 


THE  EESTIGOUCHE 

wonder  that  so  slight  a  thing  as  the  leader  can 
guide  and  draw  him.  Now  he  is  close  to  the 
boat.  The  boatman  steps  out  on  a  rock  with  his 
gaff.  Steadily  now  and  slowly,  lift  the  rod,  bend 
ing  it  backward.  A  quick  sure  stroke  of  the 
steel !  a  great  splash !  and  the  salmon  is  lifted 
upon  the  shore.  How  he  flounces  about  on  the 
stones.  Give  him  the  coup  de  grace  at  once,  for 
his  own  sake  as  well  as  for  ours.  And  now  look 
at  him,  as  he  lies  there  on  the  green  leaves. 
Broad  back;  small  head  tapering  to  a  point; 
clean,  shining  sides  with  a  few  black  spots  on 
them ;  it  is  a  fish  fresh-run  from  the  sea,  in  per 
fect  condition,  and  that  is  the  reason  why  he  has 
given  such  good  sport. 

We  must  try  for  another  before  we  go  back. 
Again  fortune  favours  us,  and  at  eleven  o'clock 
we  pole  up  the  river  to  the  camp  with  two  good 
salmon  in  the  canoe.  Hardly  have  we  laid  them 
away  in  the  ice-box,  when  Favonius  comes  drop 
ping  down  from  Patapedia  with  three  fish,  one 
of  them  a  twenty-four  pounder.  And  so  the 
morning's  work  is  done. 

In  the  evening,  after  dinner,  it  was  our  custom 
to  sit  out  on  the  deck,  watching  the  moonlight  as 
it  fell  softly  over  the  black  hills  and  changed  the 
river  into  a  pale  flood  of  rolling  gold.  The  fra 
grant  wreaths  of  smoke  floated  lazily  away  on 
the  faint  breeze  of  night.  There  was  no  sound 
132 


THE  RESTIGOUCHE 

save  the  rushing  of  the  water  and  the  crackling 
of  the  camp-fire  on  the  shore.  We  talked  of 
many  things  in  the  heavens  above,  and  the  earth 
beneath,  and  the  waters  under  the  earth ;  touch 
ing  lightly  here  and  there  as  the  spirit  of  va 
grant  converse  led  us.  Favonius  has  the  good 
sense  to  talk  about  himself  occasionally  and  tell 
his  own  experience.  The  man  who  will  not  do 
that  must  always  be  a  dull  companion.  Modest 
egoism  is  the  salt  of  conversation :  you  do  not 
want  too  much  of  it ;  but  if  it  is  altogether  omit 
ted,  everything  tastes  flat.  I  remember  well  the 
evening  when  he  told  me  the  story  of  the  Sheep 
of  the  Wilderness. 

"  I  was  ill  that  summer,"  said  he,  "  and  the 
doctor  had  ordered  me  to  go  into  the  woods,  but 
on  no  account  to  go  without  plenty  of  fresh  meat, 
which  was  essential  to  my  recovery.  So  we  set 
out  into  the  wild  country  north  of  Georgian  Bay, 
taking  a  live  sheep  with  us  in  order  to  be  sure 
that  the  doctor's  prescription  might  be  faithfully 
followed.  It  was  a  young  and  innocent  little 
beast,  curling  itself  up  at  my  feet  in  the  canoe, 
and  following  me  about  on  shore  like  a  dog.  I 
gathered  grass  every  day  to  feed  it,  and  carried 
it  in  my  arms  over  the  rough  portages.  It  ate 
out  of  my  hand  and  rubbed  its  woolly  head 
against  my  leggings.  To  my  dismay,  I  found 
that  I  was  beginning  to  love  it  for  its  own  sake 
133 


THE  EESTIGOUCHE 

and  without  any  ulterior  motives.  The  thought 
of  killing  and  eating  it  became  more  and  more 
painful  to  me,  until  at  length  the  fatal  fascina 
tion  was  complete,  and  my  trip  became  practi 
cally  an  exercise  of  devotion  to  that  sheep.  I 
carried  it  everywhere  and  ministered  fondly  to 
its  wants.  Not  for  the  world  would  I  have 
alluded  to  mutton  in  its  presence.  And  when 
we  returned  to  civilization  I  parted  from  the 
creature  with  sincere  regret  and  the  conscious 
ness  that  I  had  humoured  my  affections  at  the 
expense  of  my  digestion.  The  sheep  did  not 
give  me  so  much  as  a  look  of  farewell,  but  fell 
to  feeding  on  the  grass  beside  the  farmhouse 
with  an  air  of  placid  triumph." 

After  hearing  this  touching  tale,  I  was  glad 
that  no  great  intimacy  had  sprung  up  between 
Favonius  and  the  chickens  which  we  carried  in 
a  coop  on  the  forecastle  head,  for  there  is  no 
telling  what  restrictions  his  tender-heartedness 
might  have  laid  upon  our  larder.  But  perhaps 
a  chicken  would  not  have  given  such  an  opening 
for  misplaced  affection  as  a  sheep.  There  is  a 
great  difference  in  animals  in  this  respect.  I 
certainly  never  heard  of  any  one  falling  in  love 
with  a  salmon  in  such  a  way  as  to  regard  it  as 
a  fond  companion.  And  this  may  be  one  reason 
why  no  sensible  person  who  has  tried  fishing  has 
ever  been  able  to  see  any  cruelty  in  it. 
134 


THE  EESTIGOUCHE 

Suppose  the  fish  is  not  caught  by  an  angler, 
what  is  his  alternative  fate?  He  will  either 
perish  miserably  in  the  struggles  of  the  crowded 
net,  or  die  of  old  age  and  starvation  like  the 
long,  lean  stragglers  which  are  sometimes  found 
in  the  shallow  pools,  or  be  devoured  by  a  larger 
fish,  or  torn  to  pieces  by  a  seal  or  an  otter. 
Compared  with  any  of  these  miserable  deaths, 
the  fate  of  a  salmon  who  is  hooked  in  a  clear 
stream  and  after  a  glorious  fight  receives  the 
happy  dispatch  at  the  moment  when  he  touches 
the  shore,  is  a  sort  of  euthanasia.  And,  since 
the  fish  was  made  to  be  man's  food,  the  angler 
who  brings  him  to  the  table  of  destiny  in  the 
cleanest,  quickest,  kindest  way  is,  in  fact,  his 
benefactor. 

There  were  some  days,  however,  when  our 
benevolent  intentions  toward  the  salmon  were 
frustrated ;  mornings  when  they  refused  to  rise, 
and  evenings  when  they  escaped  even  the  skil 
ful  endeavours  of  Favonius.  In  vain  did  he  try 
every  fly  in  his  book,  from  the  smallest  "  Silver 
Doctor  "  to  the  largest  "  Golden  Eagle."  The 
"  Black  Dose "  would  not  move  them.  The 
"  Durham  Ranger "  covered  the  pool  in  vain. 
On  days  like  this,  if  a  stray  fish  rose,  it  was  hard 
to  land  him,  for  he  was  usually  but  slightly 
hooked. 

I  remember  one  of  these  shy  creatures  which 
135 


THE  BESTIGOUCHE 

led  me  a  pretty  dance  at  the  mouth  of  Patapedia. 
He  came  to  the  fly  just  at  dusk,  rising  very 
softly  and  quietly,  as  if  he  did  not  really  care 
for  it  but  only  wanted  to  see  what  it  was  like. 
He  went  down  at  once  into  deep  water,  and  be 
gan  the  most  dangerous  and  exasperating  of 
all  salmon-tactics,  moving  around  in  slow  circles 
and  shaking  his  head  from  side  to  side,  with 
sullen  pertinacity.  This  is  called  "jigging," 
and  unless  it  can  be  stopped,  the  result  is  fatal. 

I  could  not  stop  it.  That  salmon  was  deter 
mined  to  jig.  He  knew  more  than  I  did. 

The  canoe  followed  him  down  the  pool.  He 
jigged  away  past  all  three  of  the  inlets  of  the 
Patapedia,  and  at  last,  in  the  still,  deep  water  be 
low,  after  we  had  laboured  with  him  for  half  an 
hour,  and  brought  him  near  enough  to  see  that 
he  was  immense,  he  calmly  opened  his  mouth 
and  the  fly  came  back  to  me  void.  That  was 
a  sad  evening,  in  which  all  the  consolations  of 
philosophy  were  needed. 

Sunday  was  a  very  peaceful  day  in  our  camp. 
In  the  Dominion  of  Canada,  the  question  "  to 
fish  or  not  to  fish  "  on  the  first  day  of  the  week 
is  not  left  to  the  frailty  of  the  individual  con 
science.  The  law  on  the  subject  is  quite  expli 
cit,  and  says  that  between  six  o'clock  on  Satur 
day  evening  and  six  o'clock  on  Monday  morning 
all  nets  shall  be  taken  up  and  no  one  shall  wet 
136 


THE  EESTIGOUCHE 

a  line.  The  Restigouche  Salmon  Club  has  its 
guardians  stationed  all  along  the  river,  and  they 
are  quite  as  inflexible  in  seeing  that  their  em 
ployers  keep  this  law  as  the  famous  sentinel  was 
in  refusing  to  let  Napoleon  pass  without  the 
countersign.  But  I  do  not  think  that  these  keen 
sportsmen  regard  it  as  a  hardship ;  they  are 
quite  willing  that  the  fish  should  have  "  an  off 
day  "  in  every  week,  and  only  grumble  because 
some  of  the  net-owners  down  at  the  mouth  of  the 
river  have  brought  political  influence  to  bear  in 
their  favour  and  obtained  exemption  from  the 
rule.  For  our  part,  we  were  nothing  loath  to 
hang  up  our  rods,  and  make  the  day  different 
from  other  days. 

In  the  morning  we  had  a  service  in  the  cabin 
of  the  boat,  gathering  a  little  congregation  of 
guardians  and  boatmen  and  people  from  a  soli 
tary  farmhouse  up  the  river.  They  came  in 
pirogues  —  long,  narrow  boats  hollowed  from 
the  trunk  of  a  tree ;  the  black-eyed,  brown-faced 
girls  sitting  back  to  back  in  the  middle  of  the 
boat,  and  the  men  standing  up  bending  to  their 
poles.  It  seemed  a  picturesque  way  of  travel 
ling,  although  none  too  safe. 

In  the  afternoon  we  sat  on  deck  and  looked 
at  the  water.  What  a  charm  there  is  in  watch 
ing  a  swift  stream  !  The  eye  never  wearies  of 
following  its  curls  and  eddies,  the  shadow  of  the 
137 


THE  EESTIGOUCHE 

waves  dancing  over  the  stones,  the  strange, 
crinkling  lines  of  sunlight  in  the  shallows. 
There  is  a  sort  of  fascination  in  it,  lulling  and 
soothing  the  mind  into  a  quietude  which  is  even 
pleasanter  than  sleep,  and  making  it  almost 
possible  to  do  that  of  which  we  so  often  speak, 
but  which  we  never  quite  accomplish  —  "  think 
about  nothing."  Out  on  the  edge  of  the  pool, 
we  could  see  five  or  six  huge  salmon,  moving 
slowly  from  side  to  side,  or  lying  motionless  like 
gray  shadows.  There  was  nothing  to  break  the 
silence  except  the  thin  clear  whistle  of  the  white- 
throated  sparrow  far  back  in  the  woods.  This 
is  almost  the  only  bird-song  that  one  hears 
on  the  river,  unless  you  count  the  metallic 
"  chr-r-r-r  "  of  the  kingfisher  as  a  song. 

Every  now  and  then  one  of  the  salmon  in  the 
pool  would  lazily  roll  out  of  water,  or  spring  high 
into  the  air  and  fall  back  with  a  heavy  splash. 
What  is  it  that  makes  salmon  leap  ?  Is  it  pain 
or  pleasure  ?  Do  they  do  it  to  escape  the  attack 
of  another  fish,  or  to  shake  off  a  parasite  that 
clings  to  them,  or  to  practise  jumping  so  that 
they  can  ascend  the  falls  when  they  reach  them, 
or  simply  and  solely  out  of  exuberant  gladness 
and  joy  of  living?  Any  one  of  these  reasons 
would  be  enough  to  account  for  it  on  week-days. 
On  Sunday  I  am  quite  sure  they  do  it  for  the 
trial  of  the  fisherman's  faith. 
138 


A  Picturesque  Way  of  Travelling- 


THE  EESTIGOUCHE 

But  how  should  I  tell  all  the  little  incidents 
which  made  that  lazy  voyage  so  delightful  ?  Fa- 
vonius  was  the  ideal  host,  for  on  water,  as  well 
as  011  land,  he  knows  how  to  provide  for  the  lib 
erty  as  well  as  for  the  wants  of  his  guests.  He 
understands  also  the  fine  art  of  conversation, 
which  consists  of  silence  as  well  as  speech.  And 
when  it  comes  to  angling,  Izaak  Walton  himself 
could  not  have  been  a  more  profitable  teacher 
by  precept  or  example.  Indeed,  it  is  a  curious 
thought,  and  one  full  of  sadness  to  a  well-consti 
tuted  mind,  that  on  the  Eestigouche  "  I.  W." 
would  have  been  at  sea,  for  the  beloved  father 
of  all  fishermen  passed  through  this  world  with 
out  ever  catching  a  salmon.  So  ill  does  fortune 
match  with  merit  here  below. 

At  last  the  days  of  idleness  were  ended.  We 
could  not 

"  Fold  our  tents  like  the  Arabs, 
And  as  silently  steal  away ;  " 

but  we  took  down  the  long  rods,  put  away  the 
heavy  reels,  made  the  canoes  fast  to  the  side  of 
the  house,  embarked  the  three  horses  on  the 
front  deck,  and  then  dropped  down  with  the 
current,  swinging  along  through  the  rapids,  and 
drifting  slowly  through  the  still  places,  now 
grounding  on  a  hidden  rock,  and  now  sweeping 
around  a  sharp  curve,  until  at  length  we  saw  the 
roofs  of  Metapedia  and  the  ugly  bridge  of  the 
139 


THE  EESTIGOUCHE 

railway  spanning  the  river.  There  we  left  our 
floating  house,  awkward  and  helpless,  like  some 
strange  relic  of  the  flood,  stranded  on  the  shore. 
And  as  we  climbed  the  bank  we  looked  back  and 
wondered  whether  Noah  was  sorry  when  he  said 
good-bye  to  his  ark. 

140 


ALPENROSEN    AND    GOAT'S    MILK 


(  Nay,  let  me  tell  you,  there  be  many  that  have  forty  times  our  estates, 
that  would  give  the  greatest  part  of  it  to  be  healthful  and  cheerful  like 
us  ;  who,  with  the  expense  of  a  little  money,  have  ate,  and  drank,  and 
laughed,  and  angled,  and  sung,  and  slept  securely;  and  rose  next  day, 
and  cast  away  care,  and  sung,  and  laughed,  and  angled  again  ;  which 
are  blessings  rich  men  cannot  purchase  with  all  their  money." 

IZAAK  WALTON  :   The  Complete  Angler. 


ALPENROSEN   AND  GOATS  MILK 

A  GREAT  deal  of  the  pleasure  of  life  lies  in 
bringing  together  things  which  have  no  connec 
tion.  That  is  the  secret  of  humour  —  at  least  so 
we  are  told  by  the  philosophers  who  explain  the 
jests  that  other  men  have  made  —  and  in  regard 
to  travel,  I  am  quite  sure  that  it  must  be  illogical 
in  order  to  be  entertaining.  The  more  contrasts 
it  contains,  the  better. 

Perhaps  it  was  some  philosophical  reflection 
of  this  kind  that  brought  me  to  the  resolution, 
on  a  certain  summer  day,  to  make  a  little  jour 
ney,  as  straight  as  possible,  from  the  sea-level 
streets  of  Venice  to  the  lonely,  lofty  summit  of 
a  Tyrolese  mountain,  called,  for  no  earthly  rea 
son  that  I  can  discover,  the  Gross- Venediger. 

But  apart  from  the  philosophy  of  the  matter, 
which  I  must  confess  to  passing  over  very  super 
ficially  at  the  time,  there  were  other  and  more 
cogent  reasons  for  wanting  to  go  from  Venice  to 
the  Big  Venetian.  It  was  the  first  of  July,  and 
the  city  on  the  sea  was  becoming  tepid.  A 
143 


ALP  EN  ROSEN  AND  GOATS  MILK 

slumbrous  haze  brooded  over  canals  and  palaces 
and  churches.  It  was  difficult  to  keep  one's 
conscience  awake  to  Baedeker  and  a  sense  of 
moral  obligation ;  Ruskin  was  impossible,  and  a 
picture-gallery  was  a  penance.  We  floated  laz 
ily  from  one  place  to  another,  and  decided  that, 
after  all,  it  was  too  warm  to  go  in.  The  cries 
of  the  gondoliers,  at  the  canal  corners,  grew 
more  and  more  monotonous  and  dreamy.  There 
was  danger  of  our  falling  fast  asleep  and  having 
to  pay  by  the  hour  for  a  day's  repose  in  a  gon 
dola.  If  it  grew  much  warmer,  we  might  be 
compelled  to  stay  until  the  following  winter  in 
order  to  recover  energy  enough  to  get  away. 
All  the  signs  of  the  times  pointed  northward, 
to  the  mountains,  where  we  should  see  glaciers 
and  snow-fields,  and  pick  Alpenrosen,  and  drink 
goat's  milk  fresh  from  the  real  goat. 

i. 

The  first  stage  on  the  journey  thither  was  by 
rail  to  Belluno  —  about  four  or  five  hours.  It  is 
a  sufficient  commentary  on  railway  travel  that 
the  most  important  thing  about  it  is  to  tell  how 
many  hours  it  takes  to  get  from  one  place  to 
another. 

We  arrived  in  Belluno  at  night,  and  when 
we  awoke  the  next  morning  we  found  ourselves 
in  a  picturesque  little  city  of  Venetian  aspect, 
144 


ALP  EN  ROSEN  AND  GOATS  MILK 

with  a  piazza  and  a  campanile  and  a  Palladian 
cathedral,  surrounded  on  all  sides  by  lofty  hills. 
We  were  at  the  end  of  the  railway  and  at  the 
beginning  of  the  Dolomites. 

Although  I  have  a  constitutional  aversion  to 
scientific  information  given  by  unscientific  per 
sons,  such  as  clergymen  and  men  of  letters,  I 
must  go  in  that  direction  far  enough  to  make  it 
clear  that  the  word  Dolomite  does  not  describe 
a  kind  of  fossil,  nor  a  sect  of  heretics,  but  a 
formation  of  mountains  lying  between  the  Alps 
and  the  Adriatic.  Draw  a  diamond  on  the  map, 
with  Brixen  at  the  northwest  corner,  Laenz  at 
the  northeast,  Belluno  at  the  southeast,  and 
Trent  at  the  southwest,  and  you  will  have 
included  the  region  of  the  Dolomites,  a  country 
so  picturesque,  so  interesting,  so  full  of  sublime 
and  beautiful  scenery,  that  it  is  equally  a  won 
der  and  a  blessing  that  it  has  not  been  long 
since  completely  overrun  by  tourists  and  ruined 
with  railways.  It  is  true,  the  glaciers  and 
snow-fields  are  limited ;  the  waterfalls  are  com 
paratively  few  and  slender,  and  the  rivers  small ; 
the  loftiest  peaks  are  little  more  than  ten  thou 
sand  feet  high.  But,  on  the  other  hand,  the 
mountains  are  always  near,  and  therefore  always 
imposing.  Bold,  steep,  fantastic  masses  of 
naked  rock,  they  rise  suddenly  from  the  green 
and  flowery  valleys  in  amazing  and  endless  con- 
145 


ALP  EN  RO  SEN  AND  GOATS  MILK 

trast ;  they  mirror  themselves  in  the  tiny  moun 
tain  lakes  like  pictures  in  a  dream. 

I  believe  the  guide-book  says  that  they  are 
formed  of  carbonate  of  lime  and  carbonate  of 
magnesia  in  chemical  composition ;  but  even  if 
this  be  true,  it  need  not  prejudice  any  candid 
observer  against  them.  For  the  simple  and 
fortunate  fact  is  that  they  are  built  of  such  stone 
that  wind  and  weather,  keen  frost  and  melting 
snow  and  rushing  water  have  worn  and  cut  and 
carved  them  into  a  thousand  shapes  of  wonder 
and  beauty.  It  needs  but  little  fancy  to  see  in 
them  walls  and  towers,  cathedrals  and  cam 
paniles,  fortresses  and  cities,  tinged  with  many 
hues  from  pale  gray  to  deep  red,  and  shining  in 
an  air  so  soft,  so  pure,  so  cool,  so  fragrant, 
under  a  sky  so  deep  and  blue  and  a  sunshine  so 
genial,  that  it  seems  like  the  happy  union  of 
Switzerland  and  Italy. 

The  great  highway  through  this  region  from 
south  to  north  is  the  Ampezzo  road,  which  was 
constructed  in  1830,  along  the  valleys  of  the 
Piave,  the  Boite,  and  the  Rienz  —  the  ancient 
line  of  travel  and  commerce  between  Venice 
and  Innsbruck.  The  road  is  superbly  built, 
smooth  and  level.  Our  carriage  rolled  along 
so  easily  that  we  forgot  and  forgave  its  vener 
able  appearance  and  its  lack  of  accommodation 
for  trunks.  We  had  been  persuaded  to  take 
146 


ALPENEOSEN  AND  GOATS  MILK 

four  horses,  as  our  luggage  seemed  too  formi 
dable  for  a  single  pair.  But  in  effect  our  conces 
sion  to  apparent  necessity  turned  out  to  be  a 
mere  display  of  superfluous  luxury,  for  the  two 
white  leaders  did  little  more  than  show  their 
feeble  paces,  leaving  the  gray  wheelers  to  do 
the  work.  "We  had  the  elevating  sense  of 
travelling  four-in-hand,  however  —  a  satisfaction 
to  which  I  do  not  believe  any  human  being  is 
altogether  insensible. 

At  Longarone  we  breakfasted  for  the  second 
time,  and  entered  the  narrow  gorge  of  the  Piave. 
The  road  was  cut  out  of  the  face  of  the  rock. 
Below  us  the  long  lumber-rafts  went  shooting 
down  the  swift  river.  Above,  on  the  right, 
were  the  jagged  crests  of  Monte  Fuiion  and 
Premaggiore,  which  seemed  to  us  very  wonder 
ful,  because  we  had  not  yet  learned  how  jagged 
the  Dolomites  can  be.  At  Perarolo,  where  the 
Boite  joins  the  Piave,  there  is  a  lump  of  a 
mountain  in  the  angle  between  the  rivers,  and 
around  this  we  crawled  in  long  curves  until  we 
had  risen  a  thousand  feet,  and  arrived  at  the 
small  Hotel  Venezia,  where  we  were  to  dine. 

While  dinner  was  preparing,  the  Deacon  and 
I  walked  up  to  Pieve  di  Cadore,  the  birthplace 
of  Titian.  The  house  in  which  the  great  painter 
first  saw  the  colours  of  the  world  is  still  standing, 
and  tradition  points  out  the  very  room  in  which 
147 


ALPENEOSEN  AND  GOATS  MILK 

he  began  to  paint.  I  am  not  one  of  those  who 
would  inquire  too  closely  into  such  a  legend  as 
this.  The  cottage  may  have  been  rebuilt  a 
dozen  times  since  Titian's  day ;  not  a  scrap  of 
the  original  stone  or  plaster  may  remain ;  but 
beyond  a  doubt  the  view  that  we  saw  from  the 
window  is  the  same  that  Titian  saw.  Now,  for 
the  first  time,  I  could  understand  and  appre 
ciate  the  landscape-backgrounds  of  his  pictures. 
The  compact  masses  of  mountains,  the  bold, 
sharp  forms,  the  hanging  rocks  of  cold  gray 
emerging  from  green  slopes,  the  intense  blue 
aerial  distances  —  these  all  had  seemed  to  be 
unreal  and  imaginary —  compositions  of  the 
studio.  But  now  I  knew  that,  whether  Titian 
painted  out-of-doors,  like  our  modern  impres 
sionists,  or  not,  he  certainly  painted  what  he 
had  seen,  and  painted  it  as  it  is. 

The  graceful  brown-eyed  boy  who  showed  us 
the  house  seemed  also  to  belong  to  one  of 
Titian's  pictures.  As  we  were  going  away,  the 
Deacon,  for  lack  of  copper,  rewarded  him  with 
a  little  silver  piece,  a  half-lira,  in  value  about 
ten  cents.  A  celestial  rapture  of  surprise 
spread  over  the  child's  face,  and  I  know  not 
what  blessings  he  invoked  upon  us.  He  called 
his  companions  to  rejoice  with  him,  and  we  left 
them  clapping  their  hands  and  dancing. 

Driving  after  one  has  dined  has  always  a 
148 


ALPENEOSEN  AND  GOATS  MILK 

peculiar  charm.  The  motion  seems  pleasanter, 
the  landscape  finer  than  in  the  morning  hours. 
The  road  from  Cadore  ran  on  a  high  level, 
through  sloping  pastures,  white  villages,  and 
bits  of  larch  forest.  In  its  narrow  bed,  far 
below,  the  river  Boite  roared  as  gently  as 
Bottom's  lion.  The  afternoon  sunlight  touched 
the  snow-capped  pinnacle  of  Antelao  and  the 
massive  pink  wall  of  Sorapis  on  the  right ;  on 
the  left,  across  the  valley,  Monte  Pelmo's  vast 
head  and  the  wild  crests  of  La  Eochetta  and 
Formin  rose  dark  against  the  glowing  sky.  The 
peasants  lifted  their  hats  as  we  passed,  and  gave 
us  a  pleasant  evening  greeting.  And  so,  almost 
without  knowing  it,  we  slipped  out  of  Italy  into 
Austria,  and  drew  up  before  a  bare,  square  stone 
building  with  the  double  black  eagle,  like  a 
strange  fowl  split  for  broiling,  staring  at  us 
from  the  wall,  and  an  inscription  to  the  effect 
that  this  was  the  Royal  and  Imperial  Austrian 
Custom-house. 

The  officer  saluted  us  so  politely  that  we  felt 
quite  sorry  that  his  duty  required  him  to  disturb 
our  luggage.  "The  law  obliged  him  to  open 
one  trunk ;  courtesy  forbade  him  to  open  more." 
It  was  quickly  done ;  and,  without  having  to 
make  any  contribution  to  the  income  of  His 
Royal  and  Imperial  Majesty,  Francis  Joseph, 
we  rolled  on  our  way,  through  the  hamlets  of 
149 


ALPENEOSEN  AND  GOATS  MILK 

Acqua  Bona  and  Zuel,  into  the  Ampezzan  me 
tropolis  of  Cortina,  at  sundown. 

The  modest  inn  called  "  The  Star  of  Gold  " 
stood  facing  the  public  square,  just  below  the 
church,  and  the  landlady  stood  facing  us  in  the 
doorway,  with  an  enthusiastic  welcome  —  alto 
gether  a  most  friendly  and  entertaining  land 
lady,  whose  one  desire  in  life  seemed  to  be  that 
we  should  never  regret  having  chosen  her  house 
instead  of  "  The  White  Cross,"  or  "  The  Black 
Eagle." 

"  O  ja !  "  she  had  our  telegram  received ;  and 
would  we  look  at  the  rooms?  Outlooking  on 
the  piazza,  with  a  balcony  from  which  we  could 
observe  the  Festa  of  to-morrow.  She  hoped 
they  would  please  us.  "Only  come  in;  ac 
commodate  yourselves." 

It  was  all  as  she  promised ;  three  little  bed 
rooms,  and  a  little  salon  opening  on  a  little 
balcony ;  queer  old  oil-paintings  and  framed 
embroideries  and  tiles  hanging  on  the  walls ; 
spotless  curtains,  and  board  floors  so  white  that 
it  would  have  been  a  shame  to  eat  off  them 
without  spreading  a  cloth  to  keep  them  from 
being  soiled. 

"  These  are  the  rooms  of  the  Baron  Rothschild 
when  he  comes  here  always  in  the  summer  — with 
nine  horses  and  nine  servants  —  the  Baron  Roth 
schild  of  Vienna." 

150 


ALPENEOSEN  AND  GOATS  MILK 

I  assured  her  that  we  did  not  know  the 
Baron,  but  that  should  make  no  difference.  We 
would  not  ask  her  to  reduce  the  price  on  account 
of  a  little  thing  like  that. 

She  did  not  quite  grasp  this  idea,  but  hoped 
that  'we  would  not  find  the  pension  too  dear 
at  a  dollar  and  fifty-seven  and  a  half  cents  a  day 
each,  with  a  little  extra  for  the  salon  and  the 
balcony.  "  The  English  people  all  please  them 
selves  here  —  there  comes  many  every  summer 

—  English  Bishops  and  their  families." 

I  inquired  whether  there  were  many  Bishops 
in  the  house  at  that  moment. 

"No,  just  at  present  —  she  was  very  sorry 

—  none." 

"  Well,  then,"  I  said,  "  it  is  all  right.  We 
will  take  the  rooms." 

Good  Signora  Barbaria,  you  did  not  speak 
the  American  language,  nor  understand  those 
curious  perversions  of  thought  which  pass  among 
the  Americans  for  humour ;  but  you  understood 
how  to  make  a  little  inn  cheerful  and  home-like ; 
yours  was  a  very  simple  and  agreeable  art  of 
keeping  a  hotel.  As  we  sat  in  the  balcony  after 
supper,  listening  to  the  capital  playing  of  the 
village  orchestra,  and  the  Tyrolese  songs  with 
which  they  varied  their  music,  we  thought  with 
in  ourselves  that  we  were  fortunate  to  have  fallen 
upon  the  Star  of  Gold. 

151 


ALPENEOSEN  AND  GOATS  MILK 

II. 

Cortina  lies  in  its  valley  like  a  white  shell 
that  has  rolled  down  into  a  broad  vase  of  mala 
chite.  It  has  about  a  hundred  houses  and  seven 
hundred  inhabitants,  a  large  church  and  two 
small  ones,  a  fine  stone  campanile  with  excellent 
bells,  and  seven  or  eight  little  inns.  But  it  is 
more  important  than  its  size  would  signify,  for 
it  is  the  capital  of  the  district  whose  lawful  title 
is  Magnified  Comunita  di  Ampezzo  —  a  name 
conferred  long  ago  by  the  Eepublic  of  Venice. 
In  the  fifteenth  century  it  was  Venetian  terri 
tory  ;  but  in  1516,  under  Maximilian  L,  it  was 
joined  to  Austria ;  and  it  is  now  one  of  the  rich 
est  and  most  prosperous  communes  of  the  Tyrol. 
It  embraces  about  thirty-five  hundred  people, 
scattered  in  hamlets  and  clusters  of  houses 
through  the  green  basin  with  its  four  entrances, 
lying  between  the  peaks  of  Tofana,  Cristallo, 
Sorapis,  and  Nuvolau.  The  well-cultivated 
grain  fields  and  meadows,  the  smooth  alps  filled 
with  fine  cattle,  the  well-built  houses  with  their 
white  stone  basements  and  balconies  of  dark 
brown  wood  and  broad  overhanging  roofs,  all 
speak  of  industry  and  thrift.  But  there  is  more 
than  mere  agricultural  prosperity  in  this  valley. 
There  is  a  fine  race  of  men  and  women  — 
intelligent,  vigourous,  and  with  a  strong  sense 
152 


ALPENROSEN  AND  GOATS  MILK 

of  beauty.  The  outer  walls  of  the  annex  of  the 
Hotel  Aquila  Nera  are  covered  with  frescoes 
of  marked  power  and  originality,  painted  by 
the  son  of  the  innkeeper.  The  art  schools 
of  Cortina  are  famous  for  their  beautiful  work 
in  gold  and  silver  filigree,  and  wood-inlaying. 
There  are  nearly  two  hundred  pupils  in  these 
schools,  all  peasants'  children,  and  they  produce 
results,  especially  in  intarsia,  which  are  admir 
able.  The  village  orchestra,  of  which  I  spoke  a 
moment  ago,  is  trained  and  led  by  a  peasant's 
son,  who  has  never  had  a  thorough  musical  edu 
cation.  It  must  have  at  least  twenty-five  mem 
bers,  and  as  we  heard  them  at  the  Festa  they 
seemed  to  play  with  extraordinary  accuracy  and 
expression. 

This  Festa  gave  us  a  fine  chance  to  see  the 
people  of  the  Ampezzo  all  together.  It  was  the 
annual  jubilation  of  the  district ;  and  from  all 
the  outlying  hamlets  and  remote  side  valleys, 
even  from  the  neighboring  vales  of  Agordo  and 
Auronzo,  across  the  mountains,  and  from 
Cadore,  the  peasants,  men  and  women  and  chil 
dren,  had  come  in  to  the  Sagro  at  Cortina. 
The  piazza  —  which  is  really  nothing  more  than 
a  broadening  of  the  road  behind  the  church  — 
was  quite  thronged.  There  must  have  been  be 
tween  two  and  three  thousand  people. 

The  ceremonies  of  the  day  began  with  general 
153 


ALP  EN  ROSEN  AND  GOATS  MILK 

church-going.  The  people  here  are  honestly 
and  naturally  religious.  I  have  seen  so  many 
examples  of  what  can  only  be  called  "sincere 
and  unaffected  piety,"  that  I  cannot  doubt  it. 
The  church,  on  Cortina' s  feast-day,  was  crowded 
to  the  doors  with  worshippers,  who  gave  every 
evidence  of  taking  part  not  only  with  the  voice, 
but  also  with  the  heart,  in  the  worship. 

Then  followed  the  public  unveiling  of  a  tab 
let,  on  the  wall  of  the  little  Inn  of  the  Anchor, 
to  the  memory  of  Giammaria  Ghedini,  the 
founder  of  the  art-schools  of  Cortina.  There 
was  music  by  the  band;  and  an  oration  by  a 
native  Demosthenes  (who  spoke  in  Italian  so 
fluent  that  it  ran  through  one's  senses  like 
water  through  a  sluice,  leaving  nothing  be 
hind),  and  an  original  Canto,  sung  by  the  vil 
lage  choir,  with  a  general  chorus,  in  which  they 
called  upon  the  various  mountains  to  "  reecho 
the  name  of  the  beloved  master  John-Mary  as 
a  model  of  modesty  and  true  merit,"  and  wound 
up  with  — 

"  Hurrah  for  John-Mary !  Hurrah  for  his  art ! 

Hurrah  for  all  teachers  as  skilful  as  he  ! 

Hurrah  for  us  all,  who  have  now  taken  part 

In  singing  together  in  do  .  .  re  .  .  mi" 

It  was  very  primitive,  and  I  do  not  suppose 
that  the  celebration  was  even  mentioned  in  the 
154 


ALPENEOSEN  AND  GOATS  MILK 

newspapers  of  the  great  world;  but,  after  all, 
has  not  the  man  who  wins  such  a  triumph  as 
this  in  the  hearts  of  his  own  people,  for  whom 
he  has  made  labour  beautiful  with  the  charm  of 
art,  deserved  better  of  fame  than  many  a  crowned 
monarch  or  conquering  warrior  ?  We  should  be 
wiser  if  we  gave  less  glory  to  the  men  who  have 
been  successful  in  forcing  their  fellow-men  to 
die,  and  more  glory  to  the  men  who  have  been 
successful  in  teaching  their  fellow-men  how  to 
live. 

But  the  Festa  of  Cortina  did  not  remain  all 
day  on  this  high  moral  plane.  In  the  afternoon 
came  what  our  landlady  called  "  allerlei  Dumm- 
heiten."  There  was  a  grand  lottery  for  the  ben 
efit  of  the  Volunteer  Fire  Department.  The 
high  officials  sat  up  in  a  green  wooden  booth  in 
the  middle  of  the  square,  and  called  out  the 
numbers  and  distributed  the  prizes.  Then  there 
was  a  greased  pole  with  various  articles  of  an 
attractive  character  tied  to  a  large  hoop  at  the 
top  —  silk  aprons  and  a  green  jacket,  and  bot 
tles  of  wine,  and  half  a  smoked  pig,  and  a  coil 
of  rope,  and  a  purse.  The  gallant  firemen  vol 
untarily  climbed  up  the  pole  as  far  as  they 
could,  one  after  another,  and  then  involuntarily 
slid  down  again  exhausted,  each  one  wiping 
off  a  little  more  of  the  grease,  until  at  last  the 
lucky  one  came  who  profited  by  his  forerunners' 
155 


ALPENEOSEN  AND  GOATS  MILK 

labours,  and  struggled  to  the  top  to  snatch  the 
smoked  pig.  After  that  it  was  easy. 

Such  is  success  in  this  unequal  world  ;  the 
man  who  wipes  off  the  grease  seldom  gets  the 
prize. 

Then  followed  various  games,  with  tubs  of 
water;  and  coins  fastened  to  the  bottom  of  a 
huge  black  frying-pan,  to  be  plucked  off  with 
the  lips ;  and  pots  of  flour  to  be  broken  with 
sticks ;  so  that  the  young  lads  of  the  village  were 
ducked  and  blackened  and  powdered  to  an  un 
limited  extent,  amid  the  hilarious  applause  of 
the  spectators.  In  the  evening  there  was  more 
music,  and  the  peasants  danced  in  the  square, 
the  women  quietly  and  rather  heavily,  but  the 
men  with  amazing  agility,  slapping  the  soles  of 
their  shoes  with  their  hands,  or  turning  cart 
wheels  in  front  of  their  partners.  At  dark  the 
festivities  closed  with  a  display  of  fireworks; 
there  were  rockets  and  bombs  and  pin-wheels  ; 
and  the  boys  had  tiny  red  and  blue  lights  which 
they  held  until  their  fingers  were  burned,  just 
as  boys  do  in  America  ;  and  there  was  a  gen 
eral  hush  of  wonder  as  a  particularly  brilliant 
rocket  swished  into  the  dark  sky;  and  when  it 
burst  into  a  rain  of  serpents,  the  crowd  breathed 
out  its  delight  in  a  long-drawn  "  Ah-h-h-h !  " 
just  as  the  crowd  does  everywhere.  We  might 
easily  have  imagined  ourselves  at  a  Fourth  of 
156 


ALPENEOSEN  AND  GOATS  MILK 

July  celebration  in  Vermont,  if  it  had  not  been 
for  the  costumes. 

The  men  of  the  Ampezzo  Valley  have  kept 
but  little  that  is  peculiar  in  their  dress.  Men 
are  naturally  more  progressive  than  women,  and 
therefore  less  picturesque.  The  tide  of  fashion 
has  swept  them  into  the  international  monotony 
of  coat  and  vest  and  trousers  —  pretty  much 
the  same,  and  equally  ugly,  all  over  the  world. 
Now  and  then  you  may  see  a  short  jacket  with 
silver  buttons,  or  a  pair  of  knee-breeches ;  and 
almost  all  the  youths  wear  a  bunch  of  feathers 
or  a  tuft  of  chamois'  hair  in  their  soft  green 
hats.  But  the  women  of  the  Ampezzo  — 
strong,  comely,  with  golden  brown  complex 
ions,  and  often  noble  faces  —  are  not  ashamed 
to  dress  as  their  grandmothers  did.  They  wear 
a  little  round  black  felt  hat  with  rolled  rim 
and  two  long  ribbons  hanging  down  at  the  back. 
Their  hair  is  carefully  braided  and  coiled,  and 
stuck  through  and  through  with  great  silver 
pins.  A  black  bodice,  fastened  with  silver 
clasps,  is  covered  in  front  with  the  ends  of  a 
brilliant  silk  kerchief,  laid  in  many  folds 
around  the  shoulders.  The  white  shirt-sleeves 
are  very  full  and  fastened  up  above  the  elbow 
with  coloured  ribbon.  If  the  weather  is  cool, 
the  women  wear  a  short  black  jacket,  with  satin 
yoke  and  high  puffed  sleeves.  But,  whatever 
157 


ALPENEOSEN  AND  GOATS  MILK 

the  weather  may  be,  they  make  no  change  in  the 
large,  full  dark  skirts,  almost  completely  covered 
with  immense  silk  aprons,  by  preference  light 
blue.  It  is  not  a  remarkably  brilliant  dress, 
compared  with  that  which  one  may  still  see  in 
some  districts  of  Norway  or  Sweden,  but  upon 
the  whole  it  suits  the  women  of  the  Ampezzo 
wonderfully. 

For  my  part,  I  think  that  when  a  woman  has 
found  a  dress  that  becomes  her,  it  is  a  waste  of 
time  to  send  to  Paris  for  a  fashion-plate. 

in. 

"When  the  excitement  of  the  Festa  had  sub 
sided,  we  were  free  to  abandon  ourselves  to  the 
excursions  in  which  the  neighborhood  of  Cortina 
abounds,  and  to  which  the  guide-book  earnestly 
calls  every  right-minded  traveller.  A  walk 
through  the  light-green  shadows  of  the  larch- 
woods  to  the  tiny  lake  of  Ghedina,  where  we 
could  see  all  the  four  dozen  trout  swimming 
about  in  the  clear  water  and  catching  flies ;  a 
drive  to  the  Belvedere,  where  there  are  super 
ficial  refreshments  above  and  profound  grottos 
below;  these  were  trifles,  though  we  enjoyed 
them.  But  the  great  mountains  encircling  us 
on  every  side,  standing  out  in  clear  view  with 
that  distinctness  and  completeness  of  vision 
which  is  one  charm  of  the  Dolomites,  seemed  to 
158 


ALPENEOSEN  AND  GOATS  MILK 

summon  us  to  more  arduous  enterprises.  Ac 
cordingly,  the  Deacon  and  I  selected  the  easiest 
one,  engaged  a  guide,  and  prepared  for  the 
ascent. 

Monte  Nuvolau  is  not  a  perilous  mountain.  I 
am  quite  sure  that  at  my  present  time  of  life  I 
should  be  unwilling  to  ascend  a  perilous  moun 
tain  unless  there  were  something  extraordinarily 
desirable  at  the  top,  or  remarkably  disagreeable 
at  the  bottom.  Mere  risk  has  lost  the  attrac 
tions  which  it  once  had.  As  the  father  of  a 
family  I  felt  bound  to  abstain  from  going  for 
amusement  into  any  place  which  a  Christian 
lady  might  not  visit  with  propriety  and  safety. 
Our  preparation  for  Nuvolau,  therefore,  did  not 
consist  of  ropes,  ice-irons,  and  axes,  but  simply 
of  a  lunch  and  two  long  sticks. 

Our  way  led  us,  in  the  early  morning,  through 
the  clustering  houses  of  Lacedel,  up  the  broad, 
green  slope  that  faces  Cortina  on  the  west,  to  the 
beautiful  Alp  Pocol.  Nothing  could  exceed  the 
pleasure  of  such  a  walk  in  the  cool  of  the  day, 
while  the  dew  still  lies  on  the  short,  rich  grass, 
and  the  myriads  of  flowers  are  at  their  brightest 
and  sweetest.  The  infinite  variety  and  abun 
dance  of  the  blossoms  is  a  continual  wonder. 
They  are  sown  more  thickly  than  the  stars  in 
heaven,  and  the  rainbow  itself  does  not  show  so 
many  tints.  Here  they  are  mingled  like  the 
159 


ALPENROSEN  AND  GOATS  MILK 

threads  of  some  strange  embroidery ;  and  there 
again  nature  has  massed  her  colours ;  so  that 
one  spot  will  be  all  pale  blue  with  innumerable 
forget-me-nots,  or  dark  blue  with  gentians ; 
another  will  blush  with  the  delicate  pink  of  the 
Santa  Lucia  or  the  deeper  red  of  the  clover; 
and  another  will  shine  yellow  as  cloth  of  gold. 
Over  all  this  opulence  of  bloom  the  larks  were 
soaring  and  singing.  I  never  heard  so  many 
as  in  the  meadows  about  Cortina.  There  was 
always  a  sweet  spray  of  music  sprinkling  down 
out  of  the  sky,  where  the  singers  poised  un 
seen.  It  was  like  walking  through  a  shower  of 
melody. 

From  the  Alp  Pocol,  which  is  simply  a  fair, 
lofty  pasture,  we  had  our  first  full  view  of 
Nuvolau,  rising  bare  and  strong,  like  a  huge 
bastion,  from  the  dark  fir- woods.  Through 
these  our  way  led  onward  now  for  seven  miles, 
with  but  a  slight  ascent.  Then  turning  off  to 
the  left  we  began  to  climb  sharply  through  the 
forest.  There  we  found  abundance  of  the  lovely 
Alpine  roses,  which  do  not  bloom  on  the  lower 
ground.  Their  colour  is  a  deep,  glowing  pink, 
and  when  a  Tyrolese  girl  gives  you  one  of  these 
flowers  to  stick  in  the  band  of  your  hat,  you 
may  know  that  you  have  found  favour  in  her 
eyes. 

Through  the  wood  the  cuckoo  was  calling 
160 


ALPENEOSEN  AND  GOATS  MILK 

—  the  bird  which  reverses  the  law  of  good 
children,  and  insists*  on  being  heard,  but  not 
seen. 

When  the  forest  was  at  an  end  we  found  our 
selves  at  the  foot  of  an  alp  which  sloped  steeply 
up  to  the  Five  Towers  of  Averau.  The  effect  of 
these  enormous  masses  of  rock,  standing  out  in 
lonely  grandeur,  like  the  ruins  of  some  forsaken 
habitation  of  giants,  was  tremendous.  Seen 
from  far  below  in  the  valley  their  form  was  pic 
turesque  and  striking  ;  but  as  we  sat  beside  the 
clear,  cold  spring  which  gushes  out  at  the  foot 
of  the  largest  tower,  the  Titanic  rocks  seemed 
to  hang  in  the  air  above  us  as  if  they  would 
overawe  us  into  a  sense  of  their  majesty.  We 
felt  it  to  the  full ;  yet  none  the  less,  but  rather 
the  more,  could  we  feel  at  the  same  time  the 
delicate  and  ethereal  beauty  of  the  fringed  gen- 
tianella  and  the  pale  Alpine  lilies  scattered  on 
the  short  turf  beside  us. 

We  had  now  been  on  foot  about  three  hours 
and  a  half.  The  half  hour  that  remained  was 
the  hardest.  Up  over  loose,  broken  stones  that 
rolled  beneath  our  feet,  up  over  great  slopes  of 
rough  rock,  up  across  little  fields  of  snow  where 
we  paused  to  celebrate  the  Fourth  of  July  with 
a  brief  snowball  fight,  up  along  a  narrowing 
ridge  with  a  precipice  on  either  hand,  and  so 
at  last  to  the  summit,  8600  feet  above  the  sea. 
161 


ALPENEOSEN  AND  GOATS  MILK 

It  is  not  a  great  height,  but  it  is  a  noble 
situation.  For  Nuvolau  is  fortunately  placed  in 
the  very  centre  of  the  Dolomites,  and  so  com 
mands  a  finer  view  than  many  a  higher  moun 
tain.  Indeed,  it  is  not  from  the  highest  peaks, 
according  to  my  experience,  that  one  gets  the 
grandest  prospects,  but  rather  from  those  of 
middle  height,  which  are  so  isolated  as  to  give  a 
wide  circle  of  vision,  and  from  which  one  can 
see  both  the  valleys  and  the  summits.  Monte 
Rosa  itself  gives  a  less  imposing  view  than  the 
Gorner  Grat. 

It  is  possible,  in  this  world,  to  climb  too  high 
for  pleasure. 

But  what  a  panorama  Nuvolau  gave  us  on 
that  clear,  radiant  summer  morning  —  a  perfect 
circle  of  splendid  sight !  On  one  side  we  looked 
down  upon  the  Five  Towers  ;  on  the  other,  a 
thousand  feet  below,  the  Alps,  dotted  with  the 
huts  of  the  herdsmen,  sloped  down  into  the  deep- 
cut  vale  of  Agordo.  Opposite  to  us  was  the 
enormous  mass  of  Tofana,  a  pile  of  gray  and 
pink  and  saffron  rock.  When  we  turned  the 
other  way,  we  faced  a  group  of  mountains  as 
ragged  as  the  crests  of  a  line  of  fir-trees,  and 
behind  them  loomed  the  solemn  head  of  Pelmo. 
Across  the  broad  vale  of  the  Boite,  Antelao 
stood  beside  Sorapis,  like  a  campanile  beside  a 
cathedral,  and  Cristallo  towered  above  the  green 
162 


ALP  EN  ROSEN  AND  GOATS  MILK 

pass  of  the  Three  Crosses.     Through  that  open 
ing  we  could  see  the  bristling  peaks  of  the  Sex- 
tenthal.     Sweeping   around   in   a   wider   circle 
from  that  point,  we  saw,  beyond  the  Diirrenstein, 
the   snow-covered   pile  of  the  Gross-Glockner ; 
the  crimson  bastions  of  the  Eothwand  appeared 
to   the   north,  behind   Tofana;  then  the  white 
slopes  that  hang  far  away  above  the  Zillerthal  ; 
and,  nearer,  the  Geislerspitze,  like  five  fingers 
thrust  into  the  air ;   behind  that,  the  distant 
Oetzthaler  Mountain,  and  just  a  single  white 
glimpse  of  the  highest  peak  of  the  Ortler  by  the 
Engadine  ;  nearer  still  we  saw  the  vast  fortress 
of  the   Sella  group  and  the  red  combs  of  the 
Eosengarten ;  Monte  Marniolata,  the  Queen  of 
the  Dolomites,  stood  before   us  revealed  from 
base  to  peak  in  a  bridal  dress  of  snow;   and 
southward  we  looked  into  the  dark  rugged  face 
of  La  Civetta,  rising  sheer  out  of  the  vale  of 
Agordo,  where  the  Lake  of  Alleghe  slept  unseen. 
It  was  a  sea  of   mountains,  tossed  around  us 
into  a  myriad  of  motionless  waves,  and  with  a 
rainbow  of  colours  spread  among  their  hollows 
and  across  their  crests.     The  cliffs  of  rose  and 
orange  and  silver  gray,  the  valleys  of  deepest 
green,  the  distant  shadows  of  purple  and  melt 
ing  blue,  and  the  dazzling  white  of  the  scattered 
snow-fields  seemed  to  shift  and  vary  like  the 
hues  on  the  inside  of  a  shell.      And  over  all, 
163 


ALP  EN  ROSEN  AND  GOATS  MILK 

from  peak  to  peak,  the  light,  feathery  clouds 
went  drifting  lazily  and  slowly,  as  if  they  could 
not  leave  a  scene  so  fair. 

There  is  barely  room  on  the  top  of  Nuvolau 
for  the  stone  shelter-hut  which  a  grateful  Saxon 
baron  has  built  there  as  a  sort  of  votive  offering 
for  the  recovery  of  his  health  among  the  moun 
tains.  As  we  sat  within  and  ate  our  frugal 
lunch,  we  were  glad  that  he  had  recovered  his 
health,  and  glad  that  he  had  built  the  hut,  and 
glad  that  we  had  come  to  it.  In  fact,  we  could 
almost  sympathize  in  our  cold,  matter-of-fact 
American  way  with  the  sentimental  German 
inscription  which  we  read  on  the  wall : 

Von  Nuvolau' s  hohen  Wolkenstufen 

Lass  mieh,  Natur,  durch  deine  Himmel  ruf en  — 

An  deiner  Brust  gesunde,  wer  da  krank ! 

So  wird  zum  Volkerdank  mein  Sachsendank. 

We  refrained,  however,  from  shouting  any 
thing  through  Nature's  heaven,  but  went  lightly 
down,  in  about  three  hours,  to  supper  in  the  Star 
of  Gold. 

IV. 

When  a  stern  necessity  forces  one  to  leave 
Cortina,  there  are  several  ways  of  departure. 
We  selected  the  main  highway  for  our  trunks, 
but  for  ourselves  the  Pass  of  the  Three  Crosses ; 
the  Deacon  and  the  Deaconess  in  a  mountain 
wagon,  and  I  on  foot.  It  should  be  written 
164 


ALPENEOSEN  AND  GOATS  MILK 

as  an  axiom  in  the  philosophy  of  travel  that  the 
easiest  way  is  best  for  your  luggage,  and  the 
hardest  way  is  best  for  yourself. 

All  along  the  rough  road  up  to  the  Pass,  we 
had  a  glorious  outlook  backward  over  the  Val 
d'  Ampezzo,  and  when  we  came  to  the  top,  we 
looked  deep  down  into  the  narrow  Val  Buona 
behind  Sorapis.  I  do  not  know  just  when  we 
passed  the  Austrian  border,  but  when  we  came 
to  Lake  Misurina  we  found  ourselves  in  Italy 
again.  My  friends  went  on  down  the  valley  to 
Landro,  but  I  in  my  weakness,  having  eaten  of 
the  trout  of  the  lake  for  dinner,  could  not  resist 
the  temptation  of  staying  over-night  to  catch  one 
for  breakfast. 

It  was  a  pleasant  failure.  The  lake  was 
beautiful,  lying  on  top  of  the  mountain  like  a 
bit  of  blue  sky,  surrounded  by  the  peaks  of 
Cristallo,  Cadino,  and  the  Drei  Zinnen.  It  was 
a  happiness  to  float  on  such  celestial  waters  and 
cast  the  hopeful  fly.  The  trout  were  there ; 
they  were  large;  I  saw  them;  they  also  saw 
me ;  but,  alas  !  I  could  not  raise  them.  Misu 
rina  is,  in  fact,  what  the  Scotch  call  "a  dour 
loch,"  one  of  those  places  which  are  outwardly 
beautiful,  but  inwardly  so  demoralized  that  the 
trout  will  not  rise. 

When  we  came  ashore  in  the  evening,  the 
boatman  consoled  me  with  the  story  of  a  French 
165 


ALPENEOSEN  AND  GOATS  MILK 

count  who  had  spent  two  weeks  there  fishing, 
and  only  caught  one  fish.  I  had  some  thoughts 
of  staying  thirteen  days  longer,  to  rival  the 
count,  but  concluded  to  go  on  the  next  morn 
ing,  over  Monte  Pian  and  the  Cat's  Ladder  to 
Landro. 

The  view  from  Monte  Pian  is  far  less  exten 
sive  than  that  from  Nuvolau;  but  it  has  the 
advantage  of  being  very  near  the  wild  jum 
ble  of  the  Sexten  Dolomites.  The  Three  Shoe 
makers  and  a  lot  more  of  sharp  and  ragged 
fellows  are  close  by,  on  the  east ;  on  the  west, 
Cristallo  shows  its  fine  little  glacier,  and  Roth- 
wand  its  crimson  cliffs ;  and  southward  Misu- 
rina  gives  to  the  view  a  glimpse  of  water, 
without  which,  indeed,  no  view  is  complete. 
Moreover,  the  mountain  has  the  merit  of  being, 
as  its  name  implies,  quite  gentle.  I  met  the 
Deacon  and  the  Deaconess  at  the  top,  they  hav 
ing  walked  up  from  Landro.  And  so  we  crossed 
the  boundary  line  together  again,  seven  thousand 
feet  above  the  sea,  from  Italy  into  Austria. 
There  was  no  custom-house. 

The  way  down,  by  the  Cat's  Ladder,  I  trav 
elled  alone.  The  path  was  very  steep  and  little 
worn,  but  even  on  the  mountain-side  there  was 
no  danger  of  losing  it,  for  it  had  been  blazed 
here  and  there,  on  trees  and  stones,  with  a  dash 
of  blue  paint.  This  is  the  work  of  the  in- 
166 


ALPENEOSEN  AND  GOATS  MILK 

valuable  DO AV  —  which  is,  being  interpreted, 
the  German-Austrian  Alpine  Club.  The  more 
one  travels  in  the  mountains,  the  more  one  learns 
to  venerate  this  beneficent  society,  for  the  shel 
ter-huts  and  guide-posts  it  has  erected,  and  the 
paths  it  has  made  and  marked  distinctly  with 
various  colours.  The  Germans  have  a  genius 
for  thoroughness.  My  little  brown  guide-book, 
for  example,  not  only  informed  me  through 
whose  back  yard  I  must  go  to  get  into  a  cer 
tain  path,  but  it  told  me  that  in  such  and  such 
a  spot  I  should  find  quite  a  good  deal  (ziem- 
lichviel)  of  Edelweiss,  and  in  another  a  small 
echo ;  it  advised  me  in  one  valley  to  take  pro 
visions  and  dispense  with  a  guide,  and  in  an 
other  to  take  a  guide  and  dispense  with  pro 
visions,  adding  varied  information  in  regard  to 
beer,  which  in  my  case  was  useless,  for  I  could 
not  touch  it.  To  go  astray  under  such  auspices 
would  be  worse  than  inexcusable. 

Landro  we  found  a  very  different  place  from 
Cortina.  Instead  of  having  a  large  church  and 
a  number  of  small  hotels,  it  consists  entirely  of 
one  large  hotel  and  a  very  tiny  church.  It  does 
not  lie  in  a  broad,  open  basin,  but  in  a  narrow 
valley,  shut  in  closely  by  the  mountains.  The 
hotel,  in  spite  of  its  size,  is  excellent,  and  a  few 
steps  up  the  valley  is  one  of  the  finest  views  in 
the  Dolomites.  To  the  east  opens  a  deep,  wild 
167 


ALPENEOSEN  AND  GOATS  MILK 

• 

gorge,  at  the  head  of  which  the  pinnacles  of 
the  Drei  Zinnen  are  seen  ;  to  the  south  the  Diir- 
rensee  fills  the  valley  from  edge  to  edge,  and 
reflects  in  its  pale  waters  the  huge  bulk  of 
Monte  Cristallo.  It  is  such  a  complete  picture, 
so  finished,  so  compact,  so  balanced,  that  one 
might  think  a  painter  had  composed  it  in  a 
moment  of  inspiration.  But  no  painter  ever 
laid  such  colours  on  his  canvas  as  those  which 
are  seen  here  when  the  cool  evening  shadows 
have  settled  upon  the  valley,  all  gray  and 
green,  while  the  mountains  shine  above  in  rosy 
Alpenglow,  as  if  transfigured  with  inward  fire. 

There  is  another  lake,  about  three  miles  north 
of  Landro,  called  the  Toblacher  See,  and  there 
I  repaired  the  defeat  of  Misurina.  The  trout 
at  the  outlet,  by  the  bridge,  were  very  small, 
and  while  the  old  fisherman  was  endeavouring 
to  catch  some  of  them  in  his  new  net,  which 
would  not  work,  I  pushed  my  boat  up  to  the 
head  of  the  lake,  where  the  stream  came  in. 
The  green  water  was  amazingly  clear,  but  the 
current  kept  the  fish  with  their  heads  up  stream ; 
so  that  one  could  come  up  behind  them  near 
enough  for  a  long  cast,  without  being  seen.  As 
my  fly  lighted  above  them  and  came  gently  down 
with  the  ripple,  I  saw  the  first  fish  turn  and  rise 
and  take  it.  A  motion  of  the  wrist  hooked  him, 
and  he  played  just  as  gamely  as  a  trout  in  my 
168 


ALPENEOSEN  AND  GOAT'S  MILK 

favourite  Long  Island  Pond.  How  different  the 
colour,  though,  as  he  came  out  of  the  water. 
This  fellow  was  all  silvery,  with  light  pink  spots 
on  his  sides.  I  took  seven  of  his  companions, 
in  weight  some  four  pounds,  and  then  stopped 
because  the  evening  light  was  failing. 

How  pleasant  it  is  to  fish  in  such  a  place  and 
at  such  an  hour !  The  novelty  of  the  scene,  the 
grandeur  of  the  landscape,  lend  a  strange  charm 
to  the  sport.  But  the  sport  itself  is  so  familiar 
that  one  feels  at  home  — the  motion  of  the  rod, 
the  feathery  swish  of  the  line,  the  sight  of  the 
rising  fish  —  it  all  brings  back  a  hundred  wood 
land  memories,  and  thoughts  of  good  fishing 
comrades,  some  far  away  across  the  sea,  and, 
perhaps,  even  now  sitting  around  the  forest 
camp-fire  in  Maine  or  Canada,  and  some  with 
whom  we  shall  keep  company  no  more  until  we 
cross  the  greater  ocean  into  that  happy  country 
whither  they  have  preceded  us. 

v. 

Instead  of  going  straight  down  the  valley  by 
the  high  road,  a  drive  of  an  hour,  to  the  rail 
way  in  the  Pusterthal,  I  walked  up  over  the 
mountains  to  the  east,  across  the  Platzwiesen, 
and  so  down  through  the  Pragserthal.  In  one 
arm  of  the  deep  fir-clad  vale  are  the  Baths  of 
Alt-Prags,  famous  for  having  cured  the  Countess 
169 


ALPENEOSEN  AND  GOATS  MILK 

of  Gorz  of  a  violent  rheumatism  in  the  fifteenth 
century.  It  is  an  antiquated  establishment, 
and  the  guests,  who  were  walking  about  in  the 
fields  or  drinking  their  coffee  in  the  balcony, 
as  I  passed  through,  had  a  fifteenth  century 
look  about  them  —  venerable  but  slightly  ruin 
ous.  But  perhaps  that  was  merely  a  rheumatic 
result. 

All  the  wagons  in  the  place  were  engaged. 
It  is  strange  what  an  aggravating  effect  this 
state  of  affairs  has  upon  a  pedestrian  who  is 
bent  upon  riding.  I  did  not  recover  my  de 
light  in  the  scenery  until  I  had  walked  about 
five  miles  farther,  and  sat  down  on  the  grass, 
beside  a  beautiful  spring,  to  eat  my  lunch. 

What  is  there  in  a  little  physical  rest  that  has 
such  magic  to  restore  the  sense  of  pleasure  ?  A 
few  moments  ago  nothing  pleased  you  —  the 
bloom  was  gone  from  the  peach ;  but  now  it  has 
come  back  again  —  you  wonder  and  admire. 
Thus  cheerful  and  contented  I  trudged  up  the 
right  arm  of  the  valley  to  the  Baths  of  Neu- 
Prags,  less  venerable,  but  apparently  more  popu 
lar  than  Alt-Prags,  and  on  beyond  them,  through 
the  woods,  to  the  superb  Pragser-Wildsee,  a  lake 
whose  still  waters,  now  blue  as  sapphire  under 
the  clear  sky,  and  now  green  as  emerald  under 
gray  clouds,  sleep  encircled  by  mighty  preci 
pices.  Could  anything  be  a  greater  contrast 
170 


ALPENEOSEN  AND  GOATS  MILK 

with  Venice  ?  There  the  canals  alive  with  gon 
dolas,  and  the  open  harbour  bright  with  many- 
coloured  sails ;  here,  the  hidden  lake,  silent  and 
lifeless,  save  when,  as  Wordsworth  wrote :  — 

"  A  leaping-  fish 
Sends  through  the  tarn  a  lonely  cheer." 

Tired,  and  a  little  foot-sore,  after  nine  hours' 
walking,  I  came  into  the  big  railway  hotel  at 
Toblach  that  night.  There  I  met  my  friends 
again,  and  parted  from  them  and  the  Dolomites 
the  next  day,  with  regret.  For  they  were 
"  stepping  westward ;"  but  in  order  to  get  to 
the  Gross- Venediger  I  must  make  a  detour  to 
the  east,  through  the  Pusterthal,  and  come  up 
through  the  valley  of  the  Isel  to  the  great  chain 
of  mountains  called  the  Hohe  Tauern. 

At  the  junction  of  the  Isel  and  the  Drau  lies 
the  quaint  little  city  of  Lienz,  with  its  two 
castles  —  the  square,  double-towered  one  in  the 
town,  now  transformed  into  the  offices  of  the 
municipality,  and  the  huge  medieval  one  on  a 
hill  outside,  now  used  as  a  damp  restaurant  and 
dismal  beer-cellar.  I  lingered  at  Lienz  for  a 
couple  of  days,  in  the  ancient  hostelry  of  the 
Post.  The  hallways  were  vaulted  like  a  cloister, 
the  walls  were  three  feet  thick,  the  kitchen  was 
in  the  middle  of  the  house  on  the  second  floor, 
so  that  I  looked  into  it  every  time  I  came  from 
171 


ALPENEOSEN  AND  GOATS  MILK 

my  room,  and  ordered  dinner  direct  from  the 
cook.  But,  so  far  from  being  displeased  with 
these  peculiarities,  I  rather  liked  the  flavour  of 
them ;  and  then,  in  addition,  the  landlady's 
daughter,  who  was  managing  the  house,  was  a 
person  of  most  engaging  manners,  and  there 
was  trout  and  grayling  fishing  in  a  stream  near 
by,  and  the  neighbouring  church  of  Dolsach 
contained  the  beautiful  picture  of  the  Holy 
Family,  which  Franz  Defregger  painted  for  his 
native  village. 

The  peasant  women  of  Lienz  have  one  very 
striking  feature  in  their  dress  —  a  black  felt  hat 
with  a  broad,  stiff  brim  and  a  high  crown, 
smaller  at  the  top  than  at  the  base.  It  looks 
a  little  like  the  traditional  head-gear  of  the 
Pilgrim  Fathers,  exaggerated.  There  is  a  so 
lemnity  about  it  which  is  fatal  to  feminine 
beauty. 

I  went  by  the  post-wagon,  with  two  slow 
horses  and  ten  passengers,  fifteen  miles  up 
the  Iselthal,  to  Windisch-Matrei,  a  village 
whose  early  history  is  lost  in  the  mist  of  an 
tiquity,  and  whose  streets  are  pervaded  with 
odours  which  must  have  originated  at  the  same 
time  with  the  village.  One  wishes  that  they 
also  might  have  shared  the  fate  of  its  early  his 
tory.  But  it  is  not  fair  to  expect  too  much  of  a 
small  place,  and  Windisch-Matrei  has  certainly 
172 


ALPENEOSEN  AND  GOATS  MILK 

a  beautiful  situation  and  a  good  inn.  There  I 
took  my  guide  —  a  wiry  and  companionable  little 
man,  whose  occupation  in  the  lower  world  was 
that  of  a  maker  and  merchant  of  hats  —  and  set 
out  for  the  Pragerhiitte,  a  shelter  on  the  side  of 
the  Gross-Venediger. 

The  path  led  under  the  walls  of  the  old  Castle 
of  Weissenstein,  and  then  in  steep  curves  up 
the  cliff  which  blocks  the  head  of  the  valley, 
and  along  a  cut  in  the  face  of  the  rock,  into 
the  steep,  narrow  Tauernthal,  which  divides  the 
Glockner  group  from  the  Yenediger.  How 
entirely  different  it  was  from  the  region  of  the 
Dolomites!  There  the  variety  of  colour  was 
endless  and  the  change  incessant ;  here  it  was 
all  green  grass  and  trees  and  black  rocks,  with 
glimpses  of  snow.  There  the  highest  mountains 
were  in  sight  constantly ;  here  they  could  only 
be  seen  from  certain  points  in  the  valley. 
There  the  streams  played  but  a  small  part  in 
the  landscape ;  here  they  were  prominent,  the 
main  river  raging  and  foaming  through  the 
gorge  below,  while  a  score  of  waterfalls  leaped 
from  the  cliffs  011  either  side  and  dashed  down 
to  join  it. 

The  peasants,  men,  women  and  children,  were 

cutting  the  grass  in  the  perpendicular  fields  ;  the 

woodmen  were  trimming  and  felling  the  trees  in 

the  fir-forests ;  the  cattle-tenders  were  driving 

173 


ALPENEOSEN  AND  GOATS  MILK 

their  cows  along  the  stony  path,  or  herding 
them  far  up  on  the  hillsides.  It  was  a  lonely 
scene,  and  yet  a  busy  one  ;  and  all  along  the 
road  was  written  the  history  of  the  perils 
and  hardships  of  the  life  which  now  seemed 
so  peaceful  and  picturesque  under  the  summer 
sunlight. 

These  heavy  crosses,  each  covered  with  a 
narrow,  pointed  roof  and  decorated  with  a 
rude  picture,  standing  beside  the  path,  or  on  the 
bridge,  or  near  the  mill  —  what  do  they  mean  ? 
They  mark  the  place  where  a  human  life  has 
been  lost,  or  where  some  poor  peasant  has  been 
delivered  from  a  great  peril,  and  has  set  up  a 
memorial  of  his  gratitude. 

Stop,  traveller,  as  you  pass  by,  and  look  at 
the  pictures.  They  have  little  more  of  art  than 
a  child's  drawing  on  a  slate ;  but  they  will  teach 
you  what  it  means  to  earn  a  living  in  these 
mountains.  They  tell  of  the  danger  that  lurks 
on  the  steep  slopes  of  grass,  where  the  mowers 
have  to  go  down  with  ropes  around  their  waists, 
and  in  the  beds  of  the  streams  where  the  floods 
sweep  through  in  the  spring,  and  in  the  forests 
where  the  great  trees  fall  and  crush  men  like 
flies,  and  on  the  icy  bridges  where  a  slip  is  fatal, 
and  on  the  high  passes  where  the  winter  snow 
storm  blinds  the  eyes  and  benumbs  the  limbs  of 
the  traveller,  and  under  the  cliffs  from  which 
174 


ALPENEOSEN  AND  GOATS  MILK 

avalanches  slide  and  rocks  roll.  They  show 
you  men  and  women  falling  from  wagons,  and 
swept  away  by  waters,  and  overwhelmed  in  land 
slips.  In  the  corner  of  the  picture  you  may  see 
a  peasant  with  the  black  cross  above  his  head  — 
that  means  death.  Or  perhaps  it  is  deliverance 
that  the  tablet  commemorates  —  and  then  you 
will  see  the  miller  kneeling  beside  his  mill  with 
a  flood  rushing  down  upon  it,  or  a  peasant  kneel 
ing  in  his  harvest-field  under  an  inky-black 
cloud,  or  a  landlord  beside  his  inn  in  flames,  or 
a  mother  praying  beside  her  sick  children  ;  and 
above  appears  an  angel,  or  a  saint,  or  the  Virgin 
with  her  Child. 

Read  the  inscriptions,  too,  in  their  quaint 
German.  Some  of  them  are  as  humourous  as 
the  epitaphs  in  New  England  graveyards.  I 
remember  one  which  ran  like  this  : 

Here  lies  Elias  Queer, 

Killed  in  his  sixtieth  year  ; 

Scarce  had  he  seen  the  light  of  day 

When  a  wagon-wheel  crushed  his  life  away. 

And  there  is  another  famous  one  which  says : 

Here  perished  the  honoured  and  virtuous 
maiden, 

G.  V. 
This  tablet  was  erected  by  her  only  son. 

But   for   the   most   part   a   glance   at   these 
Marterl  und  Taferl,  which  are  so  frequent  on 
175 


ALPENEOSEN  AND  GOATS  MILK 

all  the  mountain-roads  of  the  Tyrol,  will  give 
you  a  strange  sense  of  the  real  pathos  of  human 
life.  If  you  are  a  Catholic,  you  will  not  refuse 
their  request  to  say  a  prayer  for  the  departed ;  if 
you  are  a  Protestant,  at  least  it  will  not  hurt  you 
to  say  one  for  those  who  still  live  and  suffer  and 
toil  among  such  dangers. 

After  we  had  walked  for  four  hours  up  the 
Tauernthal,  we  came  to  the  Matreier-Tauern- 
haus,  an  inn  which  is  kept  open  all  the  year  for 
the  shelter  of  travellers  over  the  high  pass  that 
crosses  the  mountain-range  at  this  point,  from 
north  to  south.  There  we  dined.  It  was  a 
bare,  rude  place,  but  the  dish  of  juicy  trout  was 
garnished  with  flowers,  each  fish  holding  a  big 
pansy  in  its  mouth,  and  as  the  maid  set  them 
down  before  me  she  wished  me  "a  good 
appetite,"  with  the  hearty  old-fashioned  Tyrolese 
courtesy  which  still  survives  in  these  remote 
valleys.  It  is  pleasant  to  travel  in  a  land  where 
the  manners  are  plain  and  good.  If  you  meet  a 
peasant  on  the  road  he  says,  "  God  greet  you !  " 
if  you  give  a  child  a  couple  of  kreuzers  he  folds 
his  hands  and  says,  "  God  reward  you !  "  and 
the  maid  who  lights  you  to  bed  says,  "  Good 
night,  I  hope  you  will  sleep  well !  " 

Two  hours  more  of  walking  brought  us 
through  Ausser-gschloss  and  Inner-gschlbss,  two 
groups  of  herdsmen's  huts,  tenanted  only  in 
176 


ALPENEOSEN  AND  GOATS  MILK 

summer,  at  the  head  of  the  Tauernthal.  Mid 
way  between  them  lies  a  little  chapel,  cut  into 
the  solid  rock  for  shelter  from  the  avalanches. 
This  lofty  vale  is  indeed  rightly  named ;  for  it  is 
shut  off  from  the  rest  of  the  world.  The  portal 
is  a  cliff  down  which  the  stream  rushes  in  foam 
and  thunder.  On  either  hand  rises  a  mountain 
wall.  Within,  the  pasture  is  fresh  and  green, 
sprinkled  with  Alpine  roses,  and  the  pale  river 
flows  swiftly  down  between  the  rows  of  dark 
wooden  houses.  At  the  head  of  the  vale  towers 
the  Gross- Venediger,  with  its  glaciers  and  snow- 
fields  dazzling  white  against  the  deep  blue 
heaven.  The  murmur  of  the  stream  and  the 
tinkle  of  the  cow-bells  and  the  jodelling  of  the 
herdsmen  far  up  the  slopes,  make  the  music  for 
the  scene. 

The  path  from  Gschloss  leads  straight  up  to 
the  foot  of  the  dark  pyramid  of  the  Kesselkopf, 
and  then  in  steep  endless  zig-zags  along  the  edge 
of  the  great  glacier.  I  saw,  at  first,  the  pin 
nacles  of  ice  far  above  me,  breaking  over  the 
face  of  the  rock ;  then,  after  an  hour's  breath 
less  climbing,  I  could  look  right  into  the  blue 
crevasses ;  and  at  last,  after  another  hour  over 
soft  snow-fields  and  broken  rocks,  I  was  at 
the  Pragerhut,  perched  on  the  shoulder  of  the 
mountain,  looking  down  upon  the  huge  river 
of  ice. 

177 


ALPENEOSEN  AND  GOATS  MILK 

It  was  a  magnificent  view  under  the  clear 
light  of  evening.  Here  in  front  of  us,  the  Vene- 
diger  with  all  his  brother-mountains  clustered 
about  him ;  behind  us,  across  the  Tauern,  the 
mighty  chain  of  the  Glockner  against  the  east 
ern  sky. 

This  is  the  frozen  world.  Here  the  Winter, 
driven  back  into  his  stronghold,  makes  his  last 
stand  against  the  Summer,  in  perpetual  conflict, 
retreating  by  day  to  the  mountain-peak,  but 
creeping  back  at  night  in  frost  and  snow  to  re 
gain  a  little  of  his  lost  territory,  until  at  last  the 
Summer  is  wearied  out,  and  the  Winter  sweeps 
down  again  to  claim  the  whole  valley  for  his 
own. 

VI. 

In  the  Pragerhut  I  found  mountain  comfort. 
There  were  bunks  along  the  wall  of  the  guest 
room,  with  plenty  of  blankets.  There  was  good 
store  of  eggs,  canned  meats,  and  nourishing 
black  bread.  The  friendly  goats  came  bleating 
up  to  the  door  at  nightfall  to  be  milked.  And 
in  charge  of  all  this  luxury  there  was  a  cheerful 
peasant-wife  with  her  brown-eyed  daughter,  to 
entertain  travellers.  It  was  a  pleasant  sight  to 
see  them,  as  they  sat  down  to  their  supper  with 
my  guide ;  all  three  bowed  their  heads  and  said 
their  "  grace  before  meat,"  the  guide  repeating 
the  longer  prayer  and  the  mother  and  daughter 
178 


L  * 


ALPENEOSEN  AND  GOATS  MILK 

coming  in  with  the  responses.  I  went  to  bed 
with  a  warm  and  comfortable  feeling  about  my 
heart.  It  was  a  good  ending  for  the  day.  In 
the  morning,  if  the  weather  remained  clear,  the 
alarm-clock  was  to  wake  us  at  three  for  the  as 
cent  to  the  summit. 

But  can  it  be  three  o'clock  already  ?  The 
gibbous  moon  still  hangs  in  the  sky  and  casts  a 
feeble  light  over  the  scene.  Then  up  and  away 
for  the  final  climb.  How  rough  the  path  is 
among  the  black  rocks  along  the  ridge  !  Now 
we  strike  out  on  the  gently  rising  glacier,  across 
the  crust  of  snow,  picking  our  way  among  the 
crevasses,  with  the  rope  tied  about  our  waists  for 
fear  of  a  fall.  How  cold  it  is  !  But  now  the 
gray  light  of  morning  dawns,  and  now  the 
beams  of  sunrise  shoot  up  behind  the  Glockner, 
and  now  the  sun  itself  glitters  into  sight.  The 
snow  grows  softer  as  we  toil  up  the  steep, 
narrow  comb  between  the  Gross-Venediger  and 
his  neighbour  the  Klein-Venediger.  At  last  we 
have  reached  our  journey's  end.  See,  the  whole 
of  the  Tyrol  is  spread  out  before  us  in  wondrous 
splendour,  as  we  stand  on  this  snowy  ridge ;  and 
at  our  feet  the  Schlatten  glacier,  like  a  long, 
white  snake,  curls  down  into  the  valley. 

There  is  still  a  little  peak  above  us ;  an  over 
hanging  horn  of  snow  which  the  wind  has  built 
against  the  mountain-top.  I  would  like  to  stand 
179 


ALPENEOSEN  AND  GOATS  MILK 

there,  just  for  a  moment.  The  guide  protests 
it  would  be  dangerous,  for  if  the  snow  should 
break  it  would  be  a  fall  of  a  thousand  feet  to 
the  glacier  on  the  northern  side.  But  let  us 
dare  the  few  steps  upward.  How  our  feet  sink ! 
Is  the  snow  slipping  ?  Look  at  the  glacier ! 
What  is  happening  ?  It  is  wrinkling  and  curl 
ing  backward  on  us,  serpent-like.  Its  head  rises 
far  above  us.  All  its  icy  crests  are  clashing  to 
gether  like  the  ringing  of  a  thousand  bells.  We 
are  falling !  I  fling  out  my  arm  to  grasp  the 
guide  —  and  awake  to  find  myself  clutching  a 
pillow  in  the  bunk.  The  alarm-clock  is  ringing 
fiercely  for  three  o'clock.  A  driving  snow-storm 
is  beating  against  the  window.  The  ground  is 
white.  Peer  through  the  clouds  as  I  may,  I 
cannot  even  catch  a  glimpse  of  the  vanished 
Gross-Venediger. 

180 


AU  LARGE 


Wherever  we  strayed,  the  same  tranquil  leisure  enfolded  us  ;  day  fol 
lowed  day  in  an  order  unbroken  and  Peaceful  as  tJte  unfolding  of  the 
flowers  and  tlie  silent  march  of  the  stars.  Time  no  longer  ran  like 
the  few  sands  in  a  delicate  hour-glass  held  by  a  fragile  human  hand, 
hit  like  a  majestic  river  fed  by  fathomless  seas.  ...  We  gave  our 
selves  up  to  the  sweetness  of  that  unmeasured  life,  without  thought  of 
yesterday  or  to-morrow  ;  we  drank  the  cup  to-day  held  to  our  lips,  and 
knew  that  so  long  as  we  were  athirst  that  draught  would  not  be  denied 
us.  —  HAMILTON  W.  MABIE:  Under  the  Trees, 


AU   LARGE 

THERE  is  magic  in  words,  surely,  and  many  a 
treasure  besides  AH  Baba's  is  unlocked  with  a 
verbal  key.  Some  charm  in  the  mere  sound, 
some  association  with  the  pleasant  past,  touches 
a  secret  spring.  The  bars  are  down ;  the  gate 
is  open ;  you  are  made  free  of  all  the  fields  of 
memory  and  fancy  —  by  a  word. 

Au  large  !  Envoy  ez  au  large  !  is  the  cry  of 
the  Canadian  voyageurs  as  they  thrust  their 
paddles  against  the  shore  and  push  out  on  the 
broad  lake  for  a  journey  through  the  wilderness. 
Au  large !  is  what  the  man  in  the  bow  shouts 
to  the  man  in  the  stern  when  the  birch  canoe  is 
running  down  the  rapids,  and  the  water  grows 
too  broken,  and  the  rocks  too  thick,  along  the 
river-bank.  Then  the  frail  bark  must  be  driven 
out  into  the  very  centre  of  the  wild  current,  into 
the  midst  of  danger  to  find  safety,  dashing,  like 
a  frightened  colt,  along  the  smooth,  sloping  lane 
bordered  by  white  fences  of  foam. 

Au  large  !  When  I  hear  that  word,  I  hear 
also  the  crisp  waves  breaking  on  pebbly  beaches, 
183 


AU  LARGE 

and  the  big  wind  rushing  through  innumerable 
trees,  and  the  roar  of  headlong  rivers  leaping 
down  the  rocks.  I  see  long  reaches  of  water 
sparkling  in  the  sun,  or  sleeping  still  between 
evergreen  walls  beneath  a  cloudy  sky ;  and  the 
gleam  of  white  tents  on  the  shore ;  and  the  glow 
of  firelight  dancing  through  the  woods.  I  smell 
the  delicate  vanishing  perfume  of  forest  flowers ; 
and  the  incense  of  rolls  of  birch-bark,  crinkling 
and  flaring  in  the  camp-fire ;  and  the  soothing 
odour  of  balsam-boughs  piled  deep  for  woodland 
beds  —  the  veritable  and  only  genuine  perfume 
of  the  land  of  Nod.  The  thin  shining  veil  of 
the  Northern  lights  waves  and  fades  and  bright 
ens  over  the  night  sky  ;  at  the  sound  of  the  word, 
as  at  the  ringing  of  a  bell,  the  curtain  rises. 
Scene,  the  Forest  of  Arden ;  enter  a  party  of 
hunters. 

It  was  in  the  Lake  St.  John  country,  two  hun 
dred  miles  north  of  Quebec,  that  I  first  heard 
my  rustic  incantation ;  and  it  seemed  to  fit  the 
region  as  if  it  had  been  made  for  it.  This  is 
not  a  little  pocket  wilderness  like  the  Adiron- 
dacks,  but  something  vast  and  primitive.  You 
do  not  cross  it,  from  one  railroad  to  another,  by 
a  line  of  hotels.  You  go  into  it  by  one  river  as 
far  as  you  like,  or  dare ;  and  then  you  turn  and 
come  back  again  by  another  river,  making  haste 
to  get  out  before  your  provisions  are  exhausted. 
184 


AU  LARGE 

The  lake  itself  is  the  cradle  of  the  mighty  Sa- 
guenay,  an  inland  sea,  thirty  miles  across  and 
nearly  round,  lying  in  the  broad  limestone  basin 
north  of  the  Laurentian  Mountains.  The  south 
ern  and  eastern  shores  have  been  settled  for 
twenty  or  thirty  years ;  and  the  rich  farm-land 
yields  abundant  crops  of  wheat  and  oats  and 
potatoes  to  a  community  of  industrious  habi 
tants,  who  live  in  little  modern  villages  named 
after  the  saints  and  gathered  as  closely  as  pos 
sible  around  big  gray  stone  churches,  and  thank 
the  good  Lord  that  he  has  given  them  a  climate 
at  least  four  or  five  degrees  milder  than  Quebec. 
A  railroad,  built  through  a  region  of  granite 
hills  which  will  never  be  tamed  to  the  plough, 
links  this  outlying  settlement  to  the  civilized 
world ;  and  at  the  end  of  the  railroad  the  Hotel 
Roberval,  standing  on  a  hill  above  the  lake,  of 
fers  to  the  pampered  tourist  electric  lights,  and 
spring-beds,  and  a  wide  veranda  from  which  he 
can  look  out  across  the  water  into  the  face  of  the 
wilderness. 

Northward  and  westward  the  interminable 
forest  rolls  away  to  the  shores  of  Hudson's  Bay 
and  the  frozen  wastes  of  Labrador.  It  is  an 
immense  solitude.  A  score  of  rivers  empty  into 
the  lake  ;  little  ones  like  the  Pikouabi  and  La 
Pipe,  and  middle-sized  ones  like  the  Ouiatch- 
ouan  and  La  Belle  Riviere,  and  big  ones  like 
185 


AU  LARGE 

the  Mistassini  and  the  Peribonca  ;  and  each  of 
these  streams  is  the  clue  to  a  labyrinth  of  woods 
and  waters.  The  canoe-man  who  follows  it  far 
enough  will  find  himself  among  lakes  that  are 
not  named  on  any  map  ;  he  will  camp  on  virgin 
ground,  and  make  the  acquaintance  of  unsophis 
ticated  fish;  perhaps  even,  like  the  maiden  in 
the  fairy-tale,  he  will  meet  with  the  little  bear, 
and  the  middle-sized  bear,  and  the  great  big 
bear. 

Damon  and  I  set  out  on  such  an  expedition 
shortly  after  the  nodding  lilies  in  the  Connecti 
cut  meadows  had  rung  the  noon-tide  bell  of 
summer,  and  when  the  raspberry  bushes  along 
the  line  of  the  Quebec  and  Lake  St.  John  Rail 
way  had  spread  their  afternoon  collation  for 
birds  and  men.  At  Roberval  we  found  our  four 
guides  waiting  for  us,  and  the  steamboat  took  us 
all  across  the  lake  to  the  Island  House,  at  the 
northeast  corner.  There  we  embarked  our  tents 
and  blankets,  our  pots  and  pans,  and  bags  of 
flour  and  potatoes  and  bacon  and  other  delica 
cies,  our  rods  and  guns,  and  last,  but  not  least, 
our  axes  (without  which  man  in  the  woods  is 
a  helpless  creature),  in  two  birch-bark  canoes, 
and  went  flying  down  the  Grande  D6 charge. 

It  is  a  wonderful  place,  this  outlet  of  Lake 
St.  John.     AU  the  floods  of  twenty  rivers  are 
gathered  here,  and  break  forth  through  a  net  of 
18G 


AU  LAEGE 

islands  in  a  double  stream,  divided  by  the  broad 
He  d'AIma,  into  the  Grande  Ddoharge  and  the 
Petite  De-charge.     The  southern  outlet  is  small, 
and  flows  somewhat  more  quietly  at  first.     But 
the  northern   outlet  is  a  huge   confluence  and 
tumult  of  waters.     You  see  the  set  of  the  tide 
far  out  in  the  lake,  sliding,  driving,  crowding 
hurrying  in  with  smooth  currents  and  swirling 
eddies,  toward  the  corner  of  escape      By  the 
rocky  cove  where  the  Island  House  peers  out 
through  the  fir-trees,  the  current  already  has  a 
perceptible  slope.    It  begins  to  boil  over  hidden 
stones  in  the  middle,  and  gurgles  at  projecting 
points  of  rock.     A  mile  farther  down  there  is 
an  islet  where  the  stream  quickens,  chafes,  and 
breaks  into  a  rapid.     Behind  the  islet  it  drops 
down  in  three  or  four  foaming  steps.     On  the 
outside  it  makes  one  long,  straight  rush  into  a 
line  of  white-crested  standing  waves. 

As  we  approached,  the  steersman  in  the  first 
canoe  stood  up  to  look  over  the  course.    The  sea 
was  high.     Was  it  too  high  ?     The  canoes  were 
heavily  loaded.      Could   they  leap  the  waves? 
Inere  was  a  quick  talk  among  the  guides  as  we 
slipped   along,   undecided  which   way  to  turn 
Then  the  question  seemed  to  settle  itself,  as  most 
of  these  woodland  questions  do,  as  if  some  silent 
force  of  Nature  had  the  casting-vote.     "  Sautez 
sautes  !  "  cried  Ferdinand,  «  envoys  au  large  ' "' 


AU  LARGE 

In  a  moment  we  were  sliding  down  the  smooth 
back  of  the  rapid,  directly  toward  the  first  big 
wave.  The  rocky  shore  went  by  us  like  a  dream ; 
we  could  feel  the  motion  of  the  earth  whirling 
around  with  us.  The  crest  of  the  billow  in  front 
curled  above  the  bow  of  the  canoe.  "  Arret\ 
arret',  douccment!"  A  swift  stroke  of  the 
paddle  checked  the  canoe,  quivering  and  pran 
cing  like  a  horse  suddenly  reined  in.  The  wave 
ahead,  as  if  surprised,  sank  and  flattened  for  a 
second.  The  canoe  leaped  through  the  edge  of 
it,  swerved  to  one  side,  and  ran  gayly  down  along 
the  fringe  of  the  line  of  billows,  into  quieter 
water. 

Every  one  feels  the  exhilaration  of  such  a 
descent.  I  know  a  lady  who  almost  cried  with 
fright  when  she  went  down  her  first  rapid,  but 
before  the  voyage  was  ended  she  was  saying :  — 

"  Count  that  day  lost  whose  low,  descending1  sun 
Sees  no  fall  leaped,  no  foaming  rapid  run." 

It  takes  a  touch  of  danger  to  bring  out  the  joy 
of  life. 

Our  guides  began  to  shout,  and  joke  each 
other,  and  praise  their  canoes. 

"You  grazed  that  villain  rock  at  the  corner," 
said  Jean  ;  "  did  n't  you  know  where  it  was  ?  " 

"Yes,  after  I  touched  it,"  cried  Ferdinand; 
"  but  you  took  in  a  bucket  of  water,  and  I  sup- 
188 


AU  LARGE 

pose  your  m'siev?  is  sitting  on  a  piece  of  the 
river.  Is  it  not  ?  " 

This  seemed  to  us  all  a  very  merry  jest, 
and  we  laughed  with  the  same  inextinguishable 
laughter  which  a  practical  joke,  according  to 
Homer,  always  used  to  raise  in  Olympus.  It  is 
one  of  the  charms  of  life  in  the  woods  that  it 
brings  back  the  high  spirits  of  boyhood  and 
renews  the  youth  of  the  world.  Plain  fun,  like 
plain  food,  tastes  good  out-of-doors.  Nectar  is 
the  sweet  sap  of  a  maple-tree.  Ambrosia  is 
only  another  name  for  well-turned  flapjacks. 
And  all  the  immortals,  sitting  around  the  table 
of  golden  cedar-slabs,  make  merry  when  the 
clumsy  Hephaistos,  playing  the  part  of  Hebe, 
stumbles  over  a  root  and  upsets  the  plate  of 
cakes  into  the  fire. 

The  first  little  rapid  of  the  Grande  Decharge 
was  only  the  beginning.  Half  a  mile  below  we 
could  see  the  river  disappear  between  two  points 
of  rock.  There  was  a  roar  of  conflict,  and  a 
golden  mist  hanging  in  the  air,  like  the  smoke 
of  battle.  All  along  the  place  where  the  river 
sank  from  sight,  dazzling  heads  of  foam  were 
flashing  up  and  falling  back,  as  if  a  horde  of 
water-sprites  were  vainly  trying  to  fight  their 
way  up  to  the  lake.  It  was  the  top  of  the 
grande  chute,  a  wild  succession  of  falls  and 
pools  where  no  boat  could  live  for  a  moment. 
189 


AU  LAEGE 

We  ran  down  toward  it  as  far  as  the  water 
served,  and  then  turned  off  among  the  rocks  on 
the  left  hand,  to  take  the  portage. 

These  portages  are  among  the  troublesome 
delights  of  a  journey  in  the  wilderness.  To  the 
guides  they  mean  hard  work,  for  everything, 
including  the  boats,  must  be  carried  on  their 
backs.  The  march  of  the  canoes  on  dry  land  is 
a  curious  sight.  Andrew  Marvell  described  it 
two  hundred  years  ago  when  he  was  poetizing 
beside  the  little  river  Wharfe  in  Yorkshire  :  — 

"  And  now  the  salmon-fishers  moist 
Their  leathern  boats  beg-in  to  hoist, 
And  like  antipodes  in  shoes 
Have  shod  their  heads  in  their  canoes, 
How  tortoise-like,  but  none  so  slow, 
These  rational  amphibii  go  !  " 

But  the  sportsman  carries  nothing,  except  per 
haps  his  gun,  or  his  rod,  or  his  photographic 
camera  ;  and  so  for  him  the  portage  is  only  a 
pleasant  opportunity  to  stretch  his  legs,  cramped 
by  sitting  in  the  canoe,  and  to  renew  his  ac 
quaintance  with  the  pretty  things  that  are  in  the 
woods. 

We  sauntered  along  the  trail,  Damon  and  I, 
as  if  school  were  out  and  would  never  keep 
again.  How  fresh  and  tonic  the  forest  seemed 
as  we  plunged  into  its  bath  of  shade.  There 
were  our  old  friends  the  cedars,  with  their  roots 
twisted  across  the  path ;  and  the  white  birches, 
190 


.  11 


AU  LAEGE 


so  trim  in  youth  and  so  shaggy  in  age ;  and  the 
sociable  spruces  and  balsams,  crowding  close 
together,  and  interlacing  their  arms  overhead. 
There  were  the  little  springs,  trickling  through 
the  moss ;  and  the  slippery  logs  laid  across  the 
marshy  places ;  and  the  fallen  trees,  cut  in  two 
and  pushed  aside,  —  for  this  was  a  much-trav 
elled  portage. 

Around  the  open  spaces,  the  tall  meadow-rue 
stood  dressed  in  robes  of  fairy  white  and  green. 
The  blue  banners  of  the  fleur-de-lis  were  planted 
beside  the  springs.  In  shady  corners,  deeper  in 
the  wood,  the  fragrant  pyrola  lifted  its  scape  of 
clustering  bells,  like  a  lily  of  the  valley  wan 
dered  to  the  forest.  When  we  came  to  the  end 
of  the  portage,  a  perfume  like  that  of  cyclamens 
in  Tyrolean  meadows  welcomed  us,  and  search 
ing  among  the  loose  grasses  by  the  water-side 
we  found  the  exquisite  purple  spikes  of  the  les 
ser  fringed  orchis,  loveliest  and  most  ethereal  of 
all  the  woodland  flowers  save  one.  And  what 
one  is  that?  Ah,  my  friend,  it  is  your  own 
particular  favourite,  the  flower,  by  whatever 
name  you  call  it,  that  you  plucked  long  ago 
when  you  were  walking  in  the  forest  with  your 
sweetheart,  - 

"  Im  wunderschdnen  Monat  Mai 
Als  alle  Knospen  sprangen." 

We  launched  our  canoes  again  on  the  great 
191 


AU  LAEGE 

pool  at  the  foot  of  the  first  fall,  —  a  broad 
sweep  of  water  a  mile  long  and  half  a  mile  wide, 
full  of  eddies  and  strong  currents,  and  covered 
with  drifting  foam.  There  was  the  old  camp 
ground  on  the  point,  where  I  had  tented  so 
often  with  my  lady  Grey  gown,  fishing  for  oua- 
naniche,  the  famous  laud-locked  salmon  of  Lake 
St.  John.  And  there  were  the  big  fish,  showing 
their  back  fins  as  they  circled  lazily  around  in 
the  eddies,  as  if  they  were  waiting  to  play  with 
us.  But  the  goal  of  our  day's  journey  was 
miles  away,  and  we  swept  along  with  the  stream, 
now  through  a  rush  of  quick  water,  boiling  and 
foaming,  now  through  a  still  place  like  a  lake, 
now  through 

"  Fairy  crowds 
Of  islands,  that  together  He, 
As  quietly  as  spots  of  sky 
Among  the  evening  clouds." 

The  beauty  of  the  shores  was  infinitely  varied, 
and  unspoiled  by  any  sign  of  the  presence  of 
man.  We  met  no  company  except  a  few  king 
fishers,  and  a  pair  of  gulls  who  had  come  up 
from  the  sea  to  spend  the  summer,  and  a  large 
flock  of  wild  ducks,  which  the  guides  call  "  Bet 
seys,"  as  if  they  were  all  of  the  gentler  sex.  In 
such  a  big  family  of  girls  we  supposed  that  a 
few  would  not  be  missed,  and  Damon  bagged 
two  of  the  tenderest  for  our  supper. 
192 


AU  LAEGE 

In  the  still  water  at  the  mouth  of  the  Riviere 
Mistook,  just  above  the  Rapide  aux  Cedres,  we 
went  ashore  on  a  level  wooded  bank  to  make 
our  first  camp  and  cook  our  dinner.  Let  me 
try  to  sketch  our  men  as  they  are  busied  about 
the  fire. 

They  are  all  French  Canadians  of  unmixed 
blood,  descendants  of  the  men  who  came  to  New 
France  with  Samuel  de  Champlain,  that  incom 
parable  old  woodsman  and  life-long*  lover  of  the 
wilderness.  Ferdinand  Larouche  is  our  chef — 
there  must  be  a  head  in  every  party  for  the  sake 
of  harmony  —  and  his  assistant  is  his  brother 
FranQois.  Ferdinand  is  a  stocky  little  fellow,  a 
"  sawed  off  "  man,  not  more  than  five  feet  two 
inches  tall,  but  every  inch  of  him  is  pure  vim. 
He  can  carry  a  big  canoe  or  a  hundred-weight 
of  camp  stuff  over  a  mile  portage  without  stop 
ping  to  take  breath.  He  is  a  capital  canoe-man, 
with  prudence  enough  to  ballast  his  courage, 
and  a  fair  cook,  with  plenty  of  that  quality 
which  is  wanting  in  the  ordinary  cook  of  com 
merce —  good  humour.  Always  joking,  whis 
tling,  singing,  he  brings  the  atmosphere  of  a 
perpetual  holiday  along  with  him.  His  weather 
worn  coat  covers  a  heart  full  of  music.  He  has 
two  talents  which  make  him  a  marked  man 
among  his  comrades.  He  plays  the  fiddle  to  the 
delight  of  all  the  balls  and  weddings  through 
193 


AU  LAEGE 

the  country-side ;  and  he  speaks  English  to  the 
admiration  and  envy  of  the  other  guides.  But 
like  all  men  of  genius  he  is  modest  about  his 
accomplishments.  "  H'l  not  spik  good  h'English 
—  h'only  for  camp  —  fishin',  cookin',  dhe  voyage 
— h'all  dhose  t'ings."  The  aspirates  puzzle  him. 
He  can  get  through  a  slash  of  fallen  timber 
more  easily  than  a  sentence  full  of  "  this  "  and 
"  that."  Sometimes  he  expresses  his  meaning 
queerly.  He  was  telling  me  once  about  his 
farm,  "  not  far  off  here,  in  dhe  Riviere  au 
Cochon,  river  of  dhe  pig,  you  call  'im.  H'l  am 
a  widow,  got  five  sons,  t'ree  of  dhem  are  girls." 
But  he  usually  ends  by  falling  back  into  French, 
which,  he  assures  you,  you  speak  to  perfection, 
"  much  better  than  the  Canadians ;  the  French 
of  Paris  in  short  —  M'sieu'  has  been  in  Paris?  " 
Such  courtesy  is  born  in  the  blood,  and  is  irre 
sistible.  You  cannot  help  returning  the  compli 
ment  and  assuring  him  that  his  English  is 
remarkable,  good  enough  for  all  practical  pur 
poses,  better  than  any  of  the  other  guides  can 
speak.  And  so  it  is. 

Francois  is  a  little  taller,  a  little  thinner, 
and  considerably  quieter  than  Ferdinand.  He 
laughs  loyally  at  his  brother's  jokes,  and  sings 
the  response  to  his  songs,  and  wields  a  good 
second  paddle  in  the  canoe. 

Jean  —  commonly  called  Johnny  —  Morel  is 


AU  LARGE 

a  tall,  strong  man  of  fifty,  with  a  bushy  red 
beard  that  would  do  credit  to  a  pirate.  But 
when  you  look  at  him  more  closely,  you  see 
that  he  has  a  clear,  kind  blue  eye  and  a  most 
honest,  friendly  face  under  his  slouch  hat.  He 
has  travelled  these  woods  and  waters  for  thirty 
years,  so  that  he  knows  the  way  through  them 
by  a  thousand  familiar  signs,  as  well  as  you 
know  the  streets  of  the  city.  He  is  our  path 
finder. 

The  bow  paddle  in  his  canoe  is  held  by  his 
son  Joseph,  a  lad  not  quite  fifteen,  but  already 
as  tall,  and  almost  as  strong  as  a  man.  "  He 
is  yet  of  the  youth,"  said  Johnny,  "and  he 
knows  not  the  affairs  of  the  camp.  This  trip 
is  for  him  the  first  —  it  is  his  school  —  but  I 
hope  he  will  content  you.  He  is  good,  M'sieu', 
and  of  the  strongest  for  his  age.  I  have  edu 
cated  already  two  sons  in  the  bow  of  my  canoe. 
The  oldest  has  gone  to  Pennsylvanie  ;  he  peels 
the  bark  there  for  the  tanning  of  leather.  The 
second  had  the  misfortune  of  breaking  his  leg, 
so  that  he  can  no  longer  kneel  to  paddle.  He 
has  descended  to  the  making  of  shoes.  Joseph 
is  my  third  pupil.  And  I  have  still  a  younger 
one  at  home  waiting  to  come  into  my  school." 

A  touch  of  family  life  like  that  is  always  re 
freshing,  and  doubly  so  in  the  wilderness.     For 
what  is  fatherhood  at  its  best,  everywhere,  but 
195 


AU  LARGE 

the  training  of  good  men  to  take  the  teacher's 
place  when  his  work  is  done  ?  Some  day,  when 
Johnny's  rheumatism  has  made  his  joints  a  little 
stiffer  and  his  eyes  have  lost  something  of  their 
keenness,  he  will  be  wielding  the  second  paddle 
in  the  boat,  and  going  out  only  on  the  short  and 
easy  trips.  It  will  be  young  Joseph  that  steers 
the  canoe  through  the  dangerous  places,  and 
carries  the  heaviest  load  over  the  portages,  and 
leads  the  way  on  the  long  journeys. 

It  has  taken  me  longer  to  describe  our  men 
than  it  took  them  to  prepare  our  frugal  meal : 
a  pot  of  tea,  the  woodsman's  favourite  drink,  (I 
never  knew  a  good  guide  that  would  not  go 
without  whiskey  rather  than  without  tea,)  a 
few  slices  of  toast  and  juicy  rashers  of  bacon, 
a  kettle  of  boiled  potatoes,  and  a  relish  of 
crackers  and  cheese.  We  were  in  a  hurry  to 
be  off  for  an  afternoon's  fishing,  three  or  four 
miles  down  the  river,  at  the  He  Maligne. 

The  island  is  well  named,  for  it  is  the  most 
perilous  place  on  the  river,  and  has  a  record  of 
disaster  and  death.  The  scattered  waters  of 
the  Discharge  are  drawn  together  here  into 
one  deep,  narrow,  powerful  stream,  flowing  be 
tween  gloomy  shores  of  granite.  In  mid-channel 
the  wicked  island  shows  its  scarred  and  bristling 
head,  like  a  giant  ready  to  dispute  the  passage. 
The  river  rushes  straight  at  the  rocky  brow, 
196 


AU  LARGE 

splits  into  two  currents,  and  raves  away  on  both 
sides  of  the  island  in  a  double  chain  of  furious 
falls  and  rapids. 

In  these  wild  waters  we  fished  with  immense 
delight  and  fair  success,  scrambling  down  among 
the  huge  rocks  along  the  shore,  and  joining  the 
excitement  of  an  Alpine  climb  with  the  placid 
pleasures  of  angling.  At  nightfall  we  were  at 
home  again  in  our  camp,  with  half  a  score  of 
ouananiche,  weighing  from  one  to  four  pounds 
each. 

Our  next  day's  journey  was  long  and  varie 
gated.  A  portage  of  a  mile  or  two  across  the 
He  d'Alma,  with  a  cart  to  haul  our  canoes  and 
stuff,  brought  us  to  the  Little  Discharge,  down 
which  we  floated  for  a  little  way,  and  then 
hauled  through  the  village  of  St.  Joseph  to  the 
foot  of  the  Carcajou,  or  Wildcat  Falls.  A  mile 
of  quick  water  was  soon  passed,  and  we  came  to 
the  junction  of  the  Little  Discharge  with  the 
Grand  Discharge  at  the  point  where  the  pictur 
esque  club-house  stands  in  a  grove  of  birches  be 
side  the  big  Vache  Caille  Falls.  It  is  lively  work 
crossing  the  pool  here,  when  the  water  is  high 
and  the  canoes  are  heavy ;  but  we  went  through 
the  labouring  seas  safely,  and  landed  some  dis 
tance  below,  at  the  head  of  the  Rapide  Gervais, 
to  eat  our  lunch.  The  water  was  too  rough  to 
run  down  with  loaded  boats,  so  Damon  and  I  had 
197 


AU  LARGE 

to  walk  about  three  miles  along  the  river-bank, 
while  the  men  went  down  with  the  canoes. 

On  our  way  beside  the  rapids,  Damon  geolo 
gized,  finding  the  marks  of  ancient  glaciers,  and 
bits  of  iron-ore,  and  pockets  of  sand  full  of  in 
finitesimal  garnets,  and  specks  of  gold  washed 
from  the  primitive  granite  ;  and  I  fished,  pick 
ing  up  a  pair  of  ouananiche  in  foam-covered 
nooks  among  the  rocks.  The  swift  water  was 
almost  passed  when  we  embarked  again  and  ran 
down  the  last  slope  into  a  long  deadvvater. 

The  shores,  at  first  bold  and  rough,  covered 
with  dense  thickets  of  second-growth  timber, 
now  became  smoother  and  more  fertile.  Scat 
tered  farms,  with  square,  unpainted  houses,  and 
long,  thatched  barns,  began  to  creep  over  the 
hills  toward  the  river.  There  was  a  hamlet, 
called  St.  Charles,  with  a  rude  little  church  and 
a  campanile  of  logs.  The  cure,  robed  in  decent 
black  and  wearing  a  tall  silk  hat  of  the  vintage 
of  1860,  sat  on  the  veranda  of  his  trim  pres 
bytery,  looking  down  upon  us,  like  an  image 
of  propriety  smiling  at  Bohemianism.  Other 
craft  appeared  on  the  river.  A  man  and  his 
wife  paddling  an  old  dugout,  with  half  a  dozen 
children  packed  in  amidships  ;  a  crew  of  lum 
bermen,  in  a  sharp-nosed  bateau,  picking  up 
stray  logs  along  the  banks ;  a  couple  of  boat 
loads  of  young  people  returning  merrily  from  a 
198 


AU  LARGE 

holiday  visit ;  a  party  of  berry-pickers  in  a  flat- 
bottomed  skiff ;  all  the  life  of  the  country-side 
was  in  evidence  on  the  river.  We  felt  quite  as 
if  we  had  been  "  in  the  swim  "  of  society,  when 
at  length  we  reached  the  point  where  the 
Riviere  des  Aunes  came  tumbling  down  a 
hundred-foot  ladder  of  broken  black  rocks. 
There  we  pitched  our  tents  in  a  strip  of  meadow 
by  the  water-side,  where  we  could  have  the 
sound  of  the  falls  for  a  slumber-song  all  night 
and  the  whole  river  for  a  bath  at  sunrise. 

A  sparkling  draught  of  .crystal  weather  was 
poured  into  our  stirrup-cup  in  the  morning, 
as  we  set  out  for  a  drive  of  fifteen  miles  across 
country  to  the  Riviere  a  TOurs,  a  tributary  of 
the  crooked,  unnavigable  river  of  Alders.  The 
canoes  and  luggage  were  loaded  on  a  couple  of 
charrettes,  or  two-wheeled  carts.  But  for  us 
and  the  guides  there  were  two  quatre-roues,  the 
typical  vehicles  of  the  century,  as  characteristic 
of  Canada  as  the  carriole  is  of  Norway.  It  is  a 
two-seated  buckboard,  drawn  by  one  horse,  and 
the  back  seat  is  covered  with  a  hood  like  an  old- 
fashioned  poke  bonnet.  The  road  is  of  clay  and 
always  rutty.  It  runs  level  for  a  while,  and 
then  jumps  up  a  steep  ridge  and  down  again,  or 
into  a  deep  gully  and  out  again.  The  habitant' 's 
idea  of  good  driving  is  to  let  his  horse  slide 
down  the  hill  and  gallop  up.  This  imparts  a 
199 


AU  LAEGE 

spasmodic  quality  to  the  motion,  like  Carlyle's 
style. 

The  native  houses  are  strung  along  the  road. 
The  modern  pattern  has  a  convex  angle  in  the 
roof,  and  dormer-windows  ;  it  is  a  rustic  adap 
tation  of  the  Mansard.  The  antique  pattern, 
which  is  far  more  picturesque,  has  a  concave 
curve  in  the  roof,  and  the  eaves  project  like  eye 
brows,  shading  the  flatness  of  the  face.  Paint  is 
a  rarity.  The  prevailing  colour  is  the  soft  gray 
of  weather-beaten  wood.  Sometimes,  in  the 
better  class  of  houses,  a  gallery  is  built  across 
the  front  and  around  one  side,  and  a  square  of 
garden  is  fenced  in,  with  dahlias  and  hollyhocks 
and  marigolds,  and  perhaps  a  struggling  rose 
bush,  and  usually  a  small  patch  of  tobacco  grow 
ing  in  one  corner.  Once  in  a  long  while  you 
may  see  a  Balm  of  Gilead  tree,  or  a  clump  of 
sapling  poplars,  planted  near  the  door. 

How  much  better  it  would  have  been  if  the 
farmer  had  left  a  few  of  the  noble  forest-trees  to 
shade  his  house.  But  then,  when  the  farmer 
came  into  the  wilderness  he  was  not  a  farmer, 
he  was  first  of  all  a  woodchopper.  He  regarded 
the  forest  as  a  stubborn  enemy  in  possession 
of  his  land.  He  attacked  it  with  fire  and  axe 
and  exterminated  it,  instead  of  keeping  a  few 
captives  to  hold  their  green  umbrellas  over 
his  head  when  at  last  his  grain  fields  should  be 
200 


AU  LARGE 

smiling  around  him  and  he  should  sit  down 
on  his  doorstep  to  smoke  a  pipe  of  home-grown 
tobacco. 

In  the  time  of  adversity  one  should  prepare 
for  prosperity.  I  fancy  there  are  a  good  many 
people  unconsciously  repeating  the  mistake  of 
the  Canadian  farmer  —  chopping  down  all  the 
native  growths  of  life,  clearing  the  ground  of  all 
the  useless  pretty  things  that  seem  to  cumber 
it,  sacrificing  everything  to  utility  and  success. 
We  fell  the  last  green  tree  for  the  sake  of  rais 
ing  an  extra  hill  of  potatoes  ;  and  never  stop  to 
think  what  an  ugly,  barren  place  we  may  have 
to  sit  in  while  we  eat  them.  The  ideals,  the 
attachments  —  yes,  even  the  dreams  of  youth  are 
worth  saving.  For  the  artificial  tastes  with 
which  age  tries  to  make  good  their  loss  grow 
very  slowly  and  cast  but  a  slender  shade. 

Most  of  the  Canadian  farm-houses  have  their 
ovens  out-of-doors.  We  saw  them  everywhere  ; 
rounded  edifices  of  clay,  raised  on  a  foundation 
of  logs,  and  usually  covered  with  a  pointed 
roof  of  boards.  They  looked  like  little  family 
chapels  —  and  so  they  were  ;  shrines  where  the 
ritual  of  the  good  housewife  was  celebrated,  and 
the  gift  of  daily  bread,  having  been  honestly 
earned,  was  thankfully  received. 

At  one  house  we  noticed  a  curious  fragment 
of  domestic  economy.  Half  a  pig  was  sus- 
201 


AU  LAEGE 

pended  over  the  chimney,  and  the  smoke  of  the 
summer  fire  was  turned  to  account  in  curing  the 
winter's  meat.  I  guess  the  children  of  that  fam 
ily  had  a  peculiar  fondness  for  the  parental  roof- 
tree.  We  saw  them  making  mud-pies  in  the 
road,  and  imagined  that  they  looked  lovingly 
up  at  the  pendent  porker,  outlined  against 
the  sky,  —  a  sign  of  promise,  prophetic  of 
bacon. 

About  noon  the  road  passed  beyond  the  region 
of  habitation  into  a  barren  land,  where  blue 
berries  were  the  only  crop,  and  partridges  took 
the  place  of  chickens.  Through  this  rolling 
gravelly  plain,  sparsely  wooded  and  glowing  with 
the  tall  magenta  bloom  of  the  fireweed,  we  drove 
toward  the  mountains,  until  the  road  went  to 
seed  and  we  could  follow  it  no  longer.  Then  we 
took  to  the  water  and  began  to  pole  our  canoes 
up  the  River  of  the  Bear.  It  was  a  clear,  amber- 
coloured  stream,  not  more  than  ten  or  fifteen 
yards  wide,  running  swift  and  strong,  over  beds 
of  sand  and  rounded  pebbles.  The  canoes 
went  wallowing  and  plunging  up  the  narrow 
channel,  between  thick  banks  of  alders,  like 
clumsy  sea-monsters.  All  the  grace  with  which 
they  move  under  the  strokes  of  the  paddle,  in 
large  waters,  was  gone.  They  looked  uncouth 
and  predatory,  like  a  pair  of  seals  that  I  once 
saw  swimming  far  up  the  river  Restigouche  in 
202 


AU  LAEGE 

chase  of  fish.  From  the  bow  of  each  canoe  the 
landing-net  stuck  out  as  a  symbol  of  destruction 
—  after  the  fashion  of  the  Dutch  admiral  who 
nailed  a  broom  to  his  masthead.  But  it  would 
have  been  impossible  to  sweep  the  trout  out  of 
that  little  river  by  any  fair  method  of  angling, 
for  there  were  millions  of  them ;  not  large,  but 
lively,  and  brilliant,  and  fat ;  they  leaped  in 
every  bend  of  the  stream.  We  trailed  our  flies, 
and  made  quick  casts  here  and  there,  as  we  went 
along.  It  was  fishing  on  the  wing.  And  when 
we  pitched  our  tents  in  a  hurry  at  nightfall  on 
the  low  shore  of  Lac  Stile,  among  the  bushes 
where  firewood  was  scarce  and  there  were  no 
sapins  for  the  beds,  we  were  comforted  for  the 
poorness  of  the  camp-ground  by  the  excellence 
of  the  trout  supper. 

It  was  a  bitter  cold  night  for  August.  There 
was  a  skin  of  ice  on  the  water-pail  at  daybreak. 
We  were  glad  to  be  up  and  away  for  an  early 
start.  The  river  grew  wilder  and  more  diffi 
cult.  There  were  rapids,  and  ruined  dams  built 
by  the  lumbermen  years  ago.  At  these  places 
the  trout  were  larger,  and  so  plentiful  that  it 
was  easy  to  hook  two  at  a  cast.  It  came  on  to 
rain  furiously  while  we  were  eating  our  lunch. 
But  we  did  not  seem  to  mind  it  any  more  than 
the  fish  did.  Here  and  there  the  river  was  com 
pletely  blocked  by  fallen  trees.  The  guides 
203 


AU  LARGE 

called  it  bouchee,  "corked,"  and  leaped  out 
gayly  into  the  water  with  their  axes  to  "un 
cork"  it.  We  passed  through  some  pretty  lakes, 
unknown  to  the  map-makers,  and  arrived,  before 
sundown,  at  the  Lake  of  the  Bear,  where  we 
were  to  spend  a  couple  of  days.  The  lake  was 
full  of  floating  logs,  and  the  water,  raised  by 
the  heavy  rains  and  the  operations  of  the  lum 
bermen,  was  several  feet  above  its  usual  level. 
Nature's  landing-places  were  all  blotted  out, 
and  we  had  to  explore  halfway  around  the  shore 
before  we  could  get  out  comfortably.  We  raised 
the  tents  on  a  small  shoulder  of  a  hill,  a  few 
rods  above  the  water;  and  a  glorious  camp-fire 
of  birch  logs  soon  made  us  forget  our  misery 
as  though  it  had  not  been. 

The  name  of  the  Lake  of  the  Beautiful  Trout 
made  us  desire  to  visit  it.  The  portage  was  said 
to  be  only  fifty  acres  long  (the  arpent  is  the 
popular  measure  of  distance  here),  but  it  passed 
over  a  ridge  of  newly  burned  land,  and  was  so 
entangled  with  ruined  woods  and  desolate  of 
birds  and  flowers  that  it  seemed  to  us  at  least 
five  miles.  The  lake  was  charming  —  a  sheet 
of  singularly  clear  water,  of  a  pale  green  tinge, 
surrounded  by  wooded  hills.  In  the  translucent 
depths  trout  and  pike  live  together,  but  whether 
in  peace  or  not  I  cannot  tell.  Both  of  them 
grow  to  an  enormous  size,  but  the  pike  are 
204 


AU  LAEGE 


larger  and  have  more  capacious  jaws.  One  of 
them  broke  my  tackle  and  went  off  with  a  sil 
ver  spoon  in  his  mouth,  as  if  he  had  been  born 
to  it.  Of  course  the  guides  vowed  that  they 
saw  him  as  he  passed  under  the  canoe,  and 
declared  that  he  must  weigh  thirty  or  forty 
pounds.  The  spectacles  of  regret  always  mag 
nify. 

The  trout  were  coy.  We  took  only  five  of 
them,  perfect  specimens  of  the  true  Sahelinus 
fontinalis,  with  square  tails,  and  carmine  spots 
on  their  dark,  mottled  sides ;  the  largest  weighed 
three  pounds  and  three-quarters,  and  the  others 
were  almost  as  heavy. 

On  our  way  back  to  the  camp  we  found  the  port 
age  beset  by  innumerable  and  bloodthirsty  foes. 
There  are  four  grades  of  insect  malignity  in  the 
woods.  The  mildest  is  represented  by  the  winged 
idiot  that  John  Burroughs'  little  boy  called  a 
"  blunderhead."  He  dances  stupidly  before 
your  face,  as  if  lost  in  admiration,  and  finishes 
his  pointless  tale  by  getting  in  your  eye,  or  down 
your  throat.  The  next  grade  is  represented  by 
the  midges.  "  Bite  'em  no  see  'em,"  is  the  In 
dian  name  for  these  invisible  atoms  of  animated 
pepper  which  settle  upon  you  in  the  twilight 
and  make  your  skin  burn  like  fire.  But  their 
hour  is  brief,  and  when  they  depart  they  leave 
not  a  bump  behind.  One  step  lower  in  the 
205 


AU  LARGE 

scale  we  find  the  mosquito,  or  rather  he  finds 
us,  and  makes  his  poisoned  mark  upon  our 
skin.  But  after  all,  he  has  his  good  qualities. 
The  mosquito  is  a  gentlemanly  pirate.  He  car 
ries  his  weapon  openly,  and  gives  notice  of  an 
attack.  He  respects  the  decencies  of  life,  and 
does  not  strike  below  the  belt,  or  creep  down 
the  back  of  your  neck.  But  the  black  fly  is  at 
the  bottom  of  the  moral  scale.  He  is  an  un 
mitigated  ruffian,  the  plug-ugly  of  the  woods. 
He  looks  like  a  tiny,  immature  house-fly,  with 
white  legs,  as  if  he  must  be  innocent.  But,  in 
fact,  he  crawls  like  a  serpent  and  bites  like  a 
dog.  No  portion  of  the  human  frame  is  sacred 
from  his  greed.  He  takes  his  pound  of  flesh 
anywhere,  and  does  not  scruple  to  take  the 
blood  with  it.  As  a  rule  you  can  defend  your 
self,  to  some  degree,  against  him,  by  wearing  a 
head-net,  tying  your  sleeves  around  your  wrists 
and  your  trousers  around  your  ankles,  and 
anointing  yourself  with  grease,  flavoured  with 
pennyroyal,  for  which  cleanly  and  honest  scent 
he  has  a  coarse  aversion.  But  sometimes,  espe 
cially  on  burned  land,  about  the  middle  of  a 
warm  afternoon,  when  a  rain  is  threatening, 
the  horde  of  black  flies  descend  in  force  and 
fury  knowing  that  their  time  is  short.  Then 
there  is  no  escape.  Suits  of  chain  armour,  Nu 
bian  ointments  of  far-smelling  potency,  would 
206 


AU  LARGE 

not  save  you.  You  must  do  as  our  guides  did 
on  the  portage,  submit  to  fate  and  walk  along  in 
heroic  silence,  like  Marco  Bozzaris,  "bleeding 
at  every  pore,"  —  or  as  Damon  and  I  did,  break 
into  ejaculations  and  a  run,  until  you  reach  a 
place  where  you  can  light  a  smudge  and  hold 
your  head  over  it. 

"  And  yet,"  said  my  comrade,  as  we  sat  cough 
ing  and  rubbing  our  eyes  in  the  painful  shel 
ter  of  the  smoke,  "  there  are  worse  trials  than 
this  in  the  civilized  districts:  social  enmities, 
and  newspaper  scandals,  and  religious  persecu 
tions.  The  blackest  fly  I  ever  saw  is  the  Kev- 
erend  -  — "  but  here  his  voice  was  fortunately 
choked  by  a  fit  of  coughing. 

A  couple  of  wandering  Indians — descendants 
of  the  Montagnais,  on  whose  hunting  domain 
we  were  travelling  —  dropped  in  at  our  camp 
that  night  as  we  sat  around  the  fire.  They  gave 
us  the  latest  news  about  the  portages  on  our 
further  journey ;  how  far  they  had  been  blocked 
with  fallen  trees,  and  whether  the  water  was 
high  or  low  in  the  rivers  —  just  as  a  visitor  at 
home  would  talk  about  the  effect  of  the  strikes 
on  the  stock  market,  and  the  prospects  of  the 
newest  organization  of  the  non-voting  classes  for 
the  overthrow  of  Tammany  Hall.  Every  phase 
of  civilization  or  barbarism  creates  its  own  con 
versational  currency.  The  weather,  like  the 
207 


AU  LARGE 

old  Spanish  dollar,  is  the  only  coin  that  passes 
everywhere. 

But  our  Indians  did  not  carry  much  small 
change  about  them.  They  were  dark,  silent 
chaps,  soon  talked  out ;  and  then  they  sat  suck 
ing  their  pipes  before  the  fire,  (as  dumb  as  their 
own  wooden  effigies  in  front  of  a  tobacconist's 
shop,)  until  the  spirit  moved  them,  and  they 
vanished  in  their  canoe  down  the  dark  lake. 
Our  own  guides  were  very  different.  They  were 
as  full  of  conversation  as  a  spruce-tree  is  of  gum. 
When  all  shallower  themes  were  exhausted  they 
would  discourse  of  bears  and  canoes  and  lumber 
and  fish,  forever.  After  Damon  and  I  had  left 
the  fire  and  rolled  ourselves  in  the  blankets 
in  our  own  tent,  we  could  hear  the  men  going 
on  and  on  with  their  simple  jests  and  endless 
tales  of  adventure,  until  sleep  drowned  their 
voices. 

It  was  the  sound  of  a  French  chanson  that 
woke  us  early  on  the  morning  of  our  departure 
from  the  Lake  of  the  Bear.  A  gang  of  lumber 
men  were  bringing  a  lot  of  logs  through  the 
lake.  Half-hidden  in  the  cold  gray  mist  that 
usually  betokens  a  fine  day,  and  wet  to  the  waist 
from  splashing  about  after  their  unwieldy  flock, 
these  rough  fellows  were  singing  at  their  work 
as  cheerfully  as  a  party  of  robins  in  a  cherry- 
tree  at  sunrise.  It  was  like  the  miller  and  the 
208 


417  LAEGE 

two  girls  whom  Wordsworth  saw  dancing  in  their 
boats  on  the  Thames : 

"  They  dance  not  for  me, 
Yet  mine  is  their  glee  ! 
Thus  pleasure  is  spread  through  the  earth 

In  stray  gifts  to  be  claimed  by  whoever  shall  find 
Thus  a  rich  loving-kindness,  redundantly  kind, 
Moves  all  nature  to  gladness  and  mirth." 

But  our  later  thoughts  of  the  lumbermen  were 
not  altogether  grateful,  when  we  arrived  that 
day,  after  a  mile  of  portage,  at  the  little  Riviere 
Blanche,  upon  which  we  had  counted  to  float  us 
down  to  Lac  Tchitagama,  and  found  that  they 
had  stolen  all  its  water  to  float  their  logs  down 
the  Lake  of  the  Bear.  The  poor  little  river  was 
as  dry  as  a  theological  novel.  There  was  no 
thing  left  of  it  except  the  bed  and  the  bones ;  it 
was  like  a  Connecticut  stream  in  the  middle  of 
August.  All  its  pretty  secrets  were  laid  bare  ; 
all  its  music  was  hushed.  The  pools  that  lin 
gered  among  the  rocks  seemed  like  big  tears ; 
and  the  voice  of  the  forlorn  rivulets  that  trickled 
in  here  and  there,  seeking  the  parent  stream,  was 
a  voice  of  weeping  and  complaint. 

For  us  the  loss  meant  a  hard  day's  work, 
scrambling  over  slippery  stones,  and  splashing 
through  puddles,  and  forcing  a  way  through  the 
tangled  thickets  on  the  bank,  instead  of  a  plea 
sant  two  hours'  run  on  a  swift  current.  We  ate 
209 


AU  LARGE 

our  dinner  on  a  sandbank  in  what  was  once  the 
middle  of  a  pretty  pond;  and  entered,  as  the 
sun  was  sinking,  a  narrow  wooded  gorge  between 
the  hills,  completely  filled  by  a  chain  of  small 
lakes,  where  travelling  became  easy  and  pleasant. 
The  steep  shores,  clothed  with  cedar  and  black 
spruce  and  dark-blue  fir-trees,  rose  sheer  from 
the  water ;  the  passage  from  lake  to  lake  was  a 
tiny  rapid  a  few  yards  long,  gurgling  through 
mossy  rocks  ;  at  the  foot  of  the  chain  there  was 
a  longer  rapid,  with  a  portage  beside  it.  We 
emerged  from  the  dense  bush  suddenly  and  found 
ourselves  face  to  face  with  Lake  Tchitagama. 

How  the  heart  expands  at  such  a  view  !  Nine 
miles  of  shining  water  lay  stretched  before  us, 
opening  through  the  mountains  that  guarded  it 
on  both  sides  with  lofty  walls  of  green  and  gray, 
ridge  over  ridge,  point  beyond  point,  until  the 
vista  ended  in 

"  Yon  orange  sunset  waning  slow." 

At  a  moment  like  this  one  feels  a  sense  of  exul 
tation.  It  is  a  new  discovery  of  the  joy  of  liv 
ing.  And  yet,  my  friend  and  I  confessed  to  each 
other,  there  was  a  tinge  of  sadness,  an  inexpli 
cable  regret  mingled  with  our  joy.  Was  it  the 
thought  of  how  few  human  eyes  had  even  seen 
that  lovely  vision  ?  Was  it  the  dim  foreboding 
that  we  might  never  see  it  again?  Who  can 
210 


AU  LARGE 

explain  the  secret  pathos  of  Nature's  loveliness  ? 
It  is  a  touch  of  melancholy  inherited  from  our 
mother  Eve.  It  is  an  unconscious  memory  of 
the  lost  Paradise.  It  is  the  sense  that  even  if 
we  should  find  another  Eden,  we  would  not  be 
fit  to  enjoy  it  perfectly,  nor  stay  in  it  forever. 

Our  first  camp  on  Tchitagama  was  at  the  sun 
rise  end  of  the  lake,  in  a  bay  paved  with  small 
round  stones,  laid  close  together  and  beaten 
firmly  clown  by  the  waves.  There,  and  along 
the  shores  below,  at  the  mouth  of  a  little  river 
that  foamed  in  over  a  ledge  of  granite,  and  in 
the  shadow  of  cliffs  of  limestone  and  feldspar, 
we  trolled  and  took  many  fish  :  pike  of  enormous 
size,  fresh-water  sharks,  devourers  of  nobler 
game,  fit  only  to  kill  and  throw  away  ;  huge  old 
trout  of  six  or  seven  pounds,  with  broad  tails 
and  hooked  jaws,  fine  fighters  and  poor  food  ; 
stupid,  wide-mouthed  chub  —  ouitouche,  the  In 
dians  call  them  —  biting  at  hooks  that  were  not 
baited  for  them;  and  best  of  all,  high-bred 
ouananiche,  pleasant  to  capture  and  delicate  to 
eat. 

Our  second  camp  was  on  a  sandy  point  at  the 
sunset  end  of  the  lake  —  a  fine  place  for  bath 
ing,  and  convenient  to  the  wild  meadows  and 
blueberry  patches,  where  Damon  went  to  hunt 
for  bears.  He  did  not  find  any ;  but  once  he 
heard  a  great  noise  in  the  bushes,  which  he 
211 


AU  LARGE 

thought  was  a  bear;  and  he  declared  that  he 
got  quite  as  much  excitement  out  of  it  as  if  it 
had  had  four  legs  and  a  mouthful  of  teeth. 

He  brought  back  from  one  of  his  expeditions 
an  Indian  letter,  which  he  had  found  in  a  cleft 
stick  by  the  river.  It  was  a  sheet  of  birch-bark 
with  a  picture  drawn  on  it  in  charcoal ;  five  In 
dians  in  a  canoe  paddling  up  the  river,  and  one 
in  another  canoe  pointing  in  another  direction ; 
we  read  it  as  a  message  left  by  a  hunting  party, 
telling  their  companions  not  to  go  on  up  the 
river,  because  it  was  already  occupied,  but  to 
turn  off  on  a  side  stream. 

There  was  a  sign  of  a  different  kind  nailed  to 
an  old  stump  behind  our  camp.  It  was  the  top 
of  a  soap-box,  with  an  inscription  after  this 
fashion : 

AD.  MEYER  &  B.  LEVIT 

SOAP  Mfrs.  N.  Y. 
CAMPED  HERE  JULY  18 — 
1  TROUT  17  \  POUNDS.    II  OUAN 
ANisIIfis  18|  POUNDS.    ONE 
PIKE  147 \  LBS. 

There  was  a  combination  of  piscatorial  pride 
and  mercantile  enterprise  in  this  quaint  device, 
that  took  our  fancy.  It  suggested  also  a  curious 
question  of  psychology  in  regard  to  the  inhibi 
tory  influence  of  horses  and  fish  upon  the  human 
nerve  of  veracity.  We  named  the  place  "  Point 
Ananias." 

212 


AU  LARGE 

And  yet,  in  fact,  it  was  a  wild  and  lonely 
spot,  and  not  even  the  Hebrew  inscription  could 
spoil  the  sense  of  solitude  that  surrounded  us 
when  the  night  came,  and  the  storm  howled 
across  the  lake,  and  the  darkness  encircled  us 
with  a  wall  that  only  seemed  the  more  dense  and 
impenetrable  as  the  firelight  blazed  and  leaped 
within  the  black  ring. 

"  How  far  away  is  the  nearest  house, 
Johnny?" 

"  I  don't  know ;  fifty  miles,  I  suppose." 

"  And  what  would  you  do  if  the  canoes  were 
burned,  or  if  a  tree  fell  and  smashed  them?  " 

"  Well,  I  'd  say  a  Pater  iiostcr,  and  take  bread 
and  bacon  enough  for  four  days,  and  an  axe,  and 
plenty  of  matches,  and  make  a  straight  line 
through  the  woods.  But  it  would  n't  be  a  joke, 
M'sieu',  I  can  tell  you." 

The  river  Peribonca,  into  which  Lake  Tchi- 
tagama  flows  without  a  break,  is  the  noblest  of 
all  the  streams  that  empty  into  Lake  St.  John. 
It  is  said  to  be  more  than  three  hundred  miles 
long,  and  at  the  mouth  of  the  lake  it  is  per 
haps  a  thousand  feet  wide,  flowing  with  a  deep, 
still  current  through  the  forest.  The  dead- 
water  lasted  for  several  miles ;  then  the  river 
sloped  into  a  rapid,  spread  through  a  net  of 
islands,  and  broke  over  a  ledge  in  a  cataract. 
Another  quiet  stretch  was  followed  by  another 
213 


417  LARGE 

fall,  and  so  on,  along  the  whole  course  of  the 
river. 

We  passed  three  of  these  falls  in  the  first 
day's  voyage  (by  portages  so  steep  and  rough 
that  an  Adirondack  guide  would  have  turned 
gray  at  the  sight  of  them),  and  camped  at  night 
just  below  the  Chute  du  Diable,  where  we 
found  some  ouananiche  in  the  foam.  Our  tents 
were  on  an  islet,  and  all  around  we  saw  the 
primeval,  savage  beauty  of  a  world  unmarred 
by  man. 

The  river  leaped,  shouting,  down  its  double 
stairway  of  granite,  rejoicing  like  a  strong  man 
to  run  a  race.  The  after-glow  in  the  western 
sky  deepened  from  saffron  to  violet  among  the 
tops  of  the  cedars,  and  over  the  cliffs  rose  the 
moonlight,  paling  the  heavens  but  glorifying 
the  earth.  There  was  something  large  and 
generous  and  untrammelled  in  the  scene,  recall 
ing  one  of  Walt  Whitman's  rhapsodies  :  — 

"  Earth  of  departed  sunsets  !  Earth  of  the  mountains  misty- 
topped  ! 

Earth  of  the  vitreous  pour  of  the  full  moon  just  tinged  with 
blue! 

Earth  of  shine  and  dark,  mottling-  the  tide  of  the  river !  " 

All   the   next   day   we   went  down  with  the 

current.      Regiments  of  black  spruce  stood  in 

endless  files  like  grenadiers,  each  tree  capped 

with  a  thick  tuft  of  matted  cones  and  branches. 

214 


AU  LAEGE 

Tall  white  birches  leaned  out  over  the  stream, 
Narcissus-like,  as  if  to  see  their  own  beauty  in 
the  moving  mirror.  There  were  touches  of 
colour  on  the  banks,  the  ragged  pink  flowers  of 
the  Joe-Pye-weed  (which  always  reminds  me  of  a 
happy,  good-natured  tramp),  and  the  yellow  ear 
drops  of  the  jewel-weed,  and  the  intense  blue  of 
the  closed  gentian,  that  strange  flower  which, 
like  a  reticent  heart,  never  opens  to  the  light. 
Sometimes  the  river  spread  out  like  a  lake, 
between  high  bluffs  of  sand  fully  a  mile  apart ; 
and  again  it  divided  into  many  channels,  wind 
ing  cunningly  clown  among  the  islands  as  if  it 
were  resolved  to  slip  around  the  next  barrier  of 
rock  without  a  fall.  There  were  eight  of  these 
huge  natural  dams  in  the  course  of  that  day's 
journey.  Sometimes  we  followed  one  of  the 
side  canals,  and  made  the  portage  at  a  distance 
from  the  main  cataract ;  and  sometimes  we  ran 
with  the  central  current  to  the  very  brink  of  the 
chute,  darting  aside  just  in  time  to  escape  going 
over.  At  the  foot  of  the  last  fall  we  made 
our  camp  on  a  curving  beach  of  sand,  and  spent 
the  rest  of  the  afternoon  in  fishing. 

It  was  interesting  to  see  how  closely  the 
guides  could  guess  at  the  weight  of  the  fish  by 
looking  at  them.  The  ouananiche  are  much 
longer  in  proportion  to  their  weight  than  trout, 
and  a  novice  almost  always  overestimates  them. 
215 


AU  LARGE 

But  the  guides  were  not  deceived.  "  This  one 
will  weigh  four  pounds  and  three-quarters,  and 
this  one  four  pounds,  but  that  one  not  more  than 
three  pounds ;  he  is  meagre,  M'sieu',  but  he  is 
meagre."  When  we  went  ashore  and  tried  the 
spring  balance  (which  every  angler  ought  to 
carry  with  him,  as  an  aid  to  his  conscience),  the 
guides'  guess  usually  proved  to  be  within  an 
ounce  or  two  of  the  fact.  Any  one  of  the  senses 
can  be  educated  to  do  the  work  of  the  others. 
The  eyes  of  these  experienced  fishermen  were  as 
sensitive  to  weight  as  if  they  had  been  made  to 
use  as  scales. 

Below  the  last  fall  the  Peribonca  flows  for  a 
score  of  miles  with  an  unbroken,  ever-widening 
stream,  through  low  shores  of  forest  and  bush 
and  meadow.  Near  its  mouth  the  Little  Peri 
bonca  joins  it,  and  the  immense  flood,  nearly 
two  miles  wide,  pours  into  Lake  St.  John. 
Here  we  saw  the  first  outpost  of  civilization  —  a 
huge  unpainted  storehouse,  where  supplies  are 
kept  for  the  lumbermen  and  the  new  settlers. 
Here  also  we  found  the  tiny,  lame  steam  launch 
that  was  to  carry  us  back  to  the  Hotel  Roberval. 
Our  canoes  were  stowed  upon  the  roof  of  the 
cabin,  and  we  embarked  for  the  last  stage  of 
our  long  journey. 

As  we  came  out  of  the  river-mouth,  the  oppo 
site  shore  of  the  lake  was  invisible,  and  a  stiff 
216 


AU  LARGE 

"  Nor'wester  "  was  rolling  big  waves  across  the 
bar.  It  was  like  putting  out  into  the  open  sea. 
The  launch  laboured  and  puffed  along  for  four 
or  five  miles,  growing  more  and  more  asthmatic 
with  every  breath.  Then  there  was  an  explo 
sion  in  the  engine-room.  Some  necessary  part 
of  the  intestinal  machinery  had  blown  out. 
There  was  a  moment  of  confusion.  The  captain 
hurried  to  drop  the  anchor,  and  the  narrow  craft 
lay  rolling  in  the  billows. 

What  to  do?  The  captain  shrugged  his 
shoulders  like  a  Frenchman.  "  Wait  here,  I 
suppose."  But  how  long  ?  "  Who  knows  ? 
Perhaps  till  to-morrow ;  perhaps  the  day  after. 
They  will  send  another  boat  to  look  for  us  in 
the  course  of  time." 

But  the  quarters  were  cramped ;  the  weather 
looked  ugly  ;  if  the  wind  should  rise,  the  cranky 
launch  would  not  be  a  safe  cradle  for  the  night. 
Damon  and  I  preferred  the  canoes,  for  they  at 
least  would  float  if  they  were  capsized.  So  we 
stepped  into  the  frail,  buoyant  shells  of  bark  once 
more,  and  danced  over  the  big  waves  towards  the 
shore.  We  made  a  camp  on  a  wind-swept  point 
of  sand,  and  felt  like  shipwrecked  mariners. 
But  it  was  a  gilt-edged  shipwreck.  For  our  lar 
der  was  still  full,  and  as  if  to  provide  us  with 
the  luxuries  as  well  as  the  necessities  of  life, 
Nature  had  spread  an  inexhaustible  dessert  of 
217 


AU  LAEGE 

the  largest  and  most  luscious  blueberries  around 
our  tents. 

After  supper,  strolling  along  the  beach,  we 
debated  the  best  way  of  escape  ;  whether  to  send 
one  of  our  canoes  around  the  eastern  shore  of 
the  lake  that  night,  to  meet  the  steamer  at  the 
Island  House  and  bring  it  to  our  rescue ;  or 
to  set  out  the  next  morning,  and  paddle  both 
canoes  around  the  western  end  of  the  lake, 
thirty  miles,  to  the  Hotel  Roberval.  While 
we  were  talking,  we  came  to  a  dry  old  birch-tree, 
with  ragged,  curling  bark.  "  Here  is  a  torch," 
cried  Damon,  "  to  throw  light  upon  the  situ 
ation."  He  touched  a  match  to  it,  and  the 
flames  flashed  up  the  tall  trunk  until  it  was 
transformed  into  a  pillar  of  fire.  But  the  sud 
den  illumination  burned  out,  and  our  counsels 
were  wrapt  again  in  darkness  and  uncertainty, 
when  there  came  a  great  uproar  of  steam- 
whistles  from  the  lake.  They  must  be  signal 
ling  for  us.  What  could  it  mean  ? 

We  fired  our  guns,  leaped  into  a  canoe, 
leaving  two  of  the  guides  to  break  camp,  and 
paddled  out  swiftly  into  the  night.  It  seemed 
an  endless  distance  before  we  found  the  feeble 
light  where  the  crippled  launch  was  tossing  at 
anchor.  The  captain  shouted  something  about 
a  larger  steamboat  and  a  raft  of  logs,  out  in  the 
lake,  a  mile  or  two  beyond.  Presently  we  saw 
218 


AU  LARGE 

the  lights,  and  the  orange  glow  of  the  cabin  win 
dows.  Was  she  coming,  or  going,  or  standing 
still?  We  paddled  on  as  fast  as  we  could, 
shouting  and  firing  off  a  revolver  until  we  had 
no  more  cartridges.  We  were  resolved  not  to 
let  that  mysterious  vessel  escape  us,  and  threw 
ourselves  with  energy  into  the  novel  excitement 
of  chasing  a  steamboat  in  the  dark. 

Then  the  lights  began  to  swing  around ;  the 
throbbing  of  paddle-wheels  grew  louder  and 
louder;  she  was  evidently  coming  straight  to 
wards  us.  At  that  moment  it  flashed  upon  us 
that,  while  she  had  plenty  of  lights,  we  had 
none !  We  were  lying,  invisible,  right  across 
her  track.  The  character  of  the  steamboat 
chase  was  reversed.  We  turned  and  fled,  as 
the  guides  say,  a  quatre  pattes,  into  illimitable 
space,  trying  to  get  out  of  the  way  of  our  too 
powerful  friend.  It  makes  considerable  differ 
ence,  in  the  voyage  of  life,  whether  you  chase 
the  steamboat,  or  the  steamboat  chases  you. 

Meantime  our  other  canoe  had  approached 
unseen.  The  steamer  passed  safely  between  the 
two  boats,  slackening  speed  as  the  pilot  caught 
our  loud  halloo  !  She  loomed  up  above  us  like 
a  man-of-war,  and  as  we  climbed  the  ladder 
to  the  main-deck  we  felt  that  we  had  indeed 
gotten  out  of  the  wilderness.  My  old  friend, 
Captain  Savard,  made  us  welcome.  He  had 
219 


AU  LAEGE 

been  sent  out,  much  to  his  disgust,  to  catch  a 
runaway  boom  of  logs  and  tow  it  back  to  Rober- 
val ;  it  would  be  an  all  night  affair  ;  but  we  must 
take  possession  of  his  stateroom  and  make  our 
selves  comfortable  ;  he  would  certainly  bring  us 
to  the  hotel  in  time  for  breakfast.  So  he  went 
off  on  the  upper  deck,  and  we  heard  him  stamp 
ing  about  and  yelling  to  his  crew  as  they  strug 
gled  to  get  their  unwieldy  drove  of  six  thousand 
logs  in  motion. 

All  night  long  we  assisted  at  the  lumbermen's 
difficult  enterprise.  We  heard  the  steamer 
snorting  and  straining  at  her  clumsy,  stubborn 
convoy.  The  hoarse  shouts  of  the  crew,  dis 
guised  in  a  mongrel  dialect  which  made  them 
(perhaps  fortunately)  less  intelligible  and  more 
forcible,  mingled  with  our  broken  dreams. 

But  it  was,  in  fact,  a  fitting  close  of  our  voy 
age.  For  what  were  we  doing  ?  It  was  the  last 
stage  of  the  woodman's  labour.  It  was  the 
gathering  of  a  wild  herd  of  the  houses  and 
churches  and  ships  and  bridges  that  grow  in  the 
forests,  and  bringing  them  into  the  fold  of  hu 
man  service.  I  wonder  how  often  the  inhabi 
tants  of  the  snug  Queen  Anne  cottage  in  the 
suburbs  remembers  the  picturesque  toil  and 
varied  hardship  that  it  has  cost  to  hew  and  drag 
his  walls  and  floors  and  pretty  peaked  roofs  out 
of  the  backwoods.  It  might  enlarge  his  home, 
220 


AU  LARGE 

and  make  his  musings  by  the  winter  fireside  less 
commonplace,  to  give  a  kindly  thought  now  and 
then  to  the  long  chain  of  human  workers  through 
whose  hands  the  timber  of  his  house  has  passed, 
since  it  first  felt  the  stroke  of  the  axe  in  the 
snow-bound  winter  woods,  and  floated,  through 
the  spring  and  summer,  on  far-off  lakes  and 
little  rivers,  au  large. 

221 


TROUT-FISHING  IN  THE  TRAUN. 


Those  who  wish  to  forget  gainful  thoughts  do  well  to  absent  themselves 
for  a  time  from  the  ties  and  objects  that  recall  them  ;  but  we  can  be 
said  only  to  fulfil  our  destiny  in  the  place  tkat  gave  us  birth.  I  should 
on  this  account  like  well  enough  to  spend  the  whole  of  my  life  in  travel 
ling  abroad,  if  I  could  anywhere  borrow  another  life  to  spend  after 
•wards  at  home."  -  WILLIAM  HAZLITT  :  On  Going  a  Journey.  ' 


TROUT-FISHING   IN  THE  TRAUN. 

THE  peculiarity  of  trout-fishing  in  the  Traun 
is  that  one  catches  principally  grayling.  But 
in  this  it  resembles  some  other  pursuits  which 
are  not  without  their  charm  for  minds  open  to 
the  pleasures  of  the  unexpected  —  for  example, 
reading  George  Borrow's  Bible  in  Spain  with  a 
view  to  theological  information,  or  going  to  the 
opening  night  at  the  Academy  of  Design  with 
the  intention  of  looking  at  pictures. 

Moreover,  there  are  really  trout  in  the  Traun, 
rari  nantes  in  guryite  ;  and  in  some  places  more 
than  in  others;  and  all  of  high  spirit,  though 
few  of  great  size.  Thus  the  angler  has  his 
favourite  problem:  Given  an  unknown  stream 
and  two  kinds  of  fish,  the  one  better  than  the 
other ;  to  find  the  better  kind,  and  determine 
the  hour  at  which  they  will  rise.  This  is  sport. 

As  for  the  little  river  itself,  it  has  so  many 
beauties  that  one  does  not  think  of  asking 
whether  it  has  any  faults.  Constant  fulness, 
and  crystal  clearness,  and  refreshing  coolness  of 
living  water,  pale  green  like  the  jewel  that  is 
225 


TROUT-FISHING  IN  THE  TRAUN. 

called  aqua  marina,  flowing  over  beds  of  clean 
sand  and  bars  of  polished  gravel,  and  dropping 
in  momentary  foam  from  rocky  ledges,  between 
banks  that  are  shaded  by  groves  of  fir  and  ash 
and  poplar,  or  through  dense  thickets  of  alder 
and  willow,  or  across  meadows  of  smooth  ver 
dure  sloping  up  to  quaint  old-world  villages  — 
all  these  are  features  of  the  ideal  little  river. 

I  have  spoken  of  these  personal  qualities 
first,  because  a  truly  moral  writer  ought  to 
make  more  of  character  than  of  position.  A 
good  river  in  a  bad  country  would  be  more 
worthy  of  affection  than  a  bad  river  in  a  good 
country.  But  the  Traun  has  also  the  advan 
tages  of  an  excellent  worldly  position.  For  it 
rises  all  over  the  Salzkammergut,  the  summer 
hunting-ground  of  the  Austrian  Emperor,  and 
flows  through  that  most  picturesque  corner  of 
his  domain  from  end  to  end.  Under  the  des 
olate  cliffs  of  the  Todtengebirge  on  the  east, 
and  below  the  shining  ice-fields  of  the  Dachstein 
on  the  south,  and  from  the  green  alps  around 
St.  Wolfgang  on  the  west,  the  translucent  waters 
are  gathered  in  little  tarns,  and  shot  through 
roaring  brooks,  and  spread  into  lakes  of  won 
drous  beauty,  and  poured  through  growing 
streams,  until  at  last  they  are  all  united  just 
below  the  summer  villa  of  his  Kaiserly  and 
Kingly  Majesty,  Francis  Joseph,  and  flow  away 
226 


One  of  the  Sources  of  the  Tn 


um 


TROUT-FISHING  IN  THE  TRAUN 

northward,  through  the  rest  of  his  game-pre 
serve,  into  the  Traunsee.  It  is  an  imperial  play 
ground,  and  such  as  I  would  consent  to  hunt 
the  chamois  in,  if  an  inscrutable  Providence 
had  made  nie  a  kingly  kaiser,  or  even  a  plain 
king  or  an  unvarnished  kaiser.  But,  failing 
this,  I  was  perfectly  content  to  spend  a  few  idle 
days  in  fishing  for  trout  and  catching  grayling, 
at  such  times  and  places  as  the  law  of  the  Aus 
trian  Empire  allowed. 

For  it  must  be  remembered  that  every  stream 
in  these  over-civilized  European  countries  be 
longs  to  somebody,  by  purchase  or  rent.  And 
all  the  fish  in  the  stream  are  supposed  to  belong 
to  the  person  who  owns  or  rents  it.  They  do 
not  know  their  master's  voice,  neither  will  they 
follow  when  he  calls.  But  they  are  theoretically 
his.  To  this  legal  fiction  the  untutored  American 
must  conform.  He  must  learn  to  clothe  his  nat 
ural  desires  in  the  raiment  of  lawful  sanction, 
and  take  out  some  kind  of  a  license  before  he 
follows  his  impulse  to  fish. 

It  was  in  the  town  of  Aussee,  at  the  junction 
of  the  two  highest  branches  of  the  Traun,  that 
this  impulse  came  upon  me,  mildly  irresistible. 
The  full  bloom  of  mid-July  gayety  in  that 
ancient  watering-place  was  dampened,  but  not 
extinguished,  by  two  days  of  persistent  and  sur 
prising  showers.  I  had  exhausted  the  possibili- 
227 


TROUT-FISHING  IN  THE  TRAUN 

ties  of  interest  in  the  old  Gothic  church,  and 
felt  all  that  a  man  should  feel  in  deciphering 
the  mural  tombstones  of  the  families  who  were 
exiled  for  their  faith  in  the  days  of  the  Refor 
mation.  The  throngs  of  merry  Hebrews  from 
Vienna  and  Buda-Pesth,  amazingly  arrayed  as 
mountaineers  and  milk-maids,  walking  up  and 
down  the  narrow  streets  under  umbrellas,  had 
Cleopatra's  charm  of  an  infinite  variety ;  but 
custom  staled  it.  The  woodland  paths,  winding 
everywhere  through  the  plantations  of  fir-trees 
and  provided  with  appropriate  names  on  wooden 
labels,  and  benches  for  rest  and  conversation  at 
discreet  intervals,  were  too  moist  for  even  the 
nymphs  to  take  delight  in  them.  The  only 
creatures  that  suffered  nothing  by  the  rain  were 
the  two  swift,  limpid  Trauns,  racing  through 
the  woods,  like  eager  and  unabashed  lovers,  to 
meet  in  the  middle  of  the  village.  They  were  as 
clear,  as  joyous,  as  musical  as  if  the  sun  were 
shining.  The  very  sight  of  their  opalescent 
rapids  and  eddying  pools  was  an  invitation  to 
that  gentle  sport  which  is  said  to  have  the  merit 
of  growing  better  as  the  weather  grows  worse. 
I  laid  this  fact  before  the  landlord  of  the 
hotel  of  the  Erzherzog  Johann,  as  poetically 
as  I  could,  but  he  assured  nie  that  it  was  of 
no  consequence  without  an  invitation  from  the 
gentleman  to  whom  the  streams  belonged ;  and 


TROUT-FISHING  IN  THE  TBAUN 

he  had  gone  away  for  a  week.  The  landlord 
was  such  a  good-natured  person,  and  such  an 
excellent  sleeper,  that  it  was  impossible  to  be 
lieve  that  he  could  have  even  the  smallest  in 
accuracy  upon  his  conscience.  So  I  bade  him 
farewell,  and  took  my  way,  four  miles  through 
the  woods,  to  the  lake  from  which  one  of  the 
streams  flowed. 

It  was  called  the  Griindlsee.  As  I  do  not 
know  the  origin  of  the  name,  I  cannot  consist 
ently  make  any  moral  or  historical  reflections 
upon  it.  But  if  it  has  never  become  famous, 
it  ought  to  be,  for  the  sake  of  a  cozy  and  busy 
little  inn,  perched  on  a  green  hill  beside  the  lake 
and  overlooking  the  whole  length  of  it,  from  the 
groups  of  toy  villas  at  the  foot  to  the  heaps  of 
real  mountains  at  the  head.  This  inn  kept  a 
thin  but  happy  landlord,  who  provided  me  with 
a  blue  license  to  angle,  for  the  inconsiderable 
sum  of  fifteen  cents  a  day.  This  conferred  the 
right  of  fishing  not  only  in  the  Griindlsee,  but 
also  in  the  smaller  tarn  of  Toplitz,  a  mile  above 
it,  and  in  the  swift  stream  which  united  them. 
It  all  coincided  with  my  desire  as  if  by  magic. 
A  row  of  a  couple  of  miles  to  the  head  of  the 
lake,  and  a  walk  through  the  forest,  brought  me 
to  the  smaller  pond ;  and  as  the  afternoon  sun 
was  ploughing  pale  furrows  through  the  showers, 
I  waded  out  on  a  point  of  reeds  and  cast  the 
229 


TROUT-FISHING  IN  THE  TEAUN 

artful  fly  in  the  shadow  of  the  great  cliffs  of  the 
Dead  Mountains. 

It  was  a  fit  scene  for  a  lone  fisherman.  But 
four  sociable  tourists  promptly  appeared  to  act 
as  spectators  and  critics.  Fly-fishing  usually 
strikes  the  German  mind  as  an  eccentricity  which 
calls  for  remonstrance.  After  one  of  the  tourists 
had  suggestively  narrated  the  tale  of  seven  trout 
which  he  had  caught  in  another  lake,  with 
worms,  on  the  previous  Sunday,  they  went  away 
for  a  row  (with  salutations  in  which  politeness 
but  thinly  veiled  their  pity),  and  left  me  still 
whipping  the  water  in  vain.  Nor  was  the  for 
tune  of  the  day  much  better  in  the  stream  be 
low.  It  was  a  long  and  wet  wade  for  three  fish 
too  small  to  keep.  I  came  out  on  the  shore  of 
the  lake,  where  I  had  left  the  row-boat,  with  an 
empty  bag  and  a  feeling  of  damp  discourage 
ment. 

There  was  still  an  hour  or  so  of  daylight,  and 
a  beautiful  place  to  fish  where  the  stream  poured 
swirling  out  into  the  lake.  A  rise,  and  a  large 
one,  though  rather  slow,  awakened  my  hopes. 
Another  rise,  evidently  made  by  a  heavy  fish, 
made  me  certain  that  virtue  was  about  to  be 
rewarded.  The  third  time  the  hook  went  home. 
I  felt  the  solid  weight  of  the  fish  against  the 
spring  of  the  rod,  and  that  curious  thrill  which 
runs  up  the  line  and  down  the  arm,  changing, 
230 


TEOUT-FISHING  IN  THE  TKAUN. 

somehow  or  other,  into  a  pleasurable  sensation 
of  excitement  as  it  reaches  the  brain.  But  it 
was  only  for  a  moment ;  and  then  came  that 
foolish,  feeble  shaking  of  the  line  from  side  to 
side  which  tells  the  angler  that  he  has  hooked  a 
great,  big,  leather-mouthed  chub  —  a  fish  which 
Izaak  Walton  says  "  the  French  esteem  so  mean 
as  to  call  him  Un  Vilain."  Was  it  for  this 
that  I  had  come  to  the  country  of  Francis 
Joseph  ? 

I  took  off  the  flies  and  put  on  one  of  those 
phantom  minnows  which  have  immortalized  the 
name  of  a  certain  Mr.  Brown.  It  swung  on  a 
long  line  as  the  boat  passed  back  and  forth 
across  the  current,  once,  twice,  three  times  — 
and  on  the  fourth  circle  there  was  a  sharp 
strike.  The  rod  bent  almost  double,  and  the 
reel  sang  shrilly  to  the  first  rush  of  the  fish. 
He  ran ;  he  doubled ;  he  went  to  the  bottom  and 
sulked ;  he  tried  to  go  under  the  boat ;  he  did 
all  that  a  game  fish  can  do,  except  leaping. 
After  twenty  minutes  he  was  tired  enough  to  be 
lifted  gently  into  the  boat  by  a  hand  slipped 
around  his  gills,  and  there  he  was,  a  lachs- 
forelle  of  three  pounds'  weight :  small  pointed 
head;  silver  sides  mottled  with  dark  spots; 
square,  powerful  tail  and  large  fins  —  a  fish  not 
unlike  the  land-locked  salmon  of  the  Saguenay, 
but  more  delicate. 

231 


TROUT-FISHING  IN  THE  TEAUN 

Half  an  hour  later  he  was  lying  on  the  grass 
in  front  of  the  Inn.  The  waiters  paused,  with 
their  hands  full  of  dishes,  to  look  at  him ;  and 
the  landlord  called  his  guests,  including  my 
didactic  tourists,  to  observe  the  superiority  of 
the  trout  of  the  Grundlsee.  The  maids  also 
came  to  look ;  and  the  buxom  cook,  with  her 
spotless  apron  and  bare  arms  akimbo,  was  drawn 
from  her  kitchen,  and  pledged  her  culinary 
honour  that  such  a  pracht-kerl  should  be  served 
up  in  her  very  best  style.  The  angler  who  is 
insensible  to  this  sort  of  indirect  flattery  through 
his  fish  does  not  exist.  Even  the  most  indiffer 
ent  of  men  thinks  more  favourably  of  people 
who  know  a  good  trout  when  they  see  it,  and 
sits  down  to  his  supper  with  kindly  feelings. 
Possibly  he  reflects,  also,  upon  the  incident  as  a 
hint  of  the  usual  size  of  the  fish  in  that  neigh 
bourhood.  He  remembers  that  he  may  have 
been  favoured  in  this  case  beyond  his  deserts  by 
good-fortune,  and  resolving  not  to  put  too  heavy 
a  strain  upon  it,  considers  the  next  place  where 
it  would  be  well  for  him  to  angle. 

Hallstatt  is  about  ten  miles  below  Aussee. 
The  Traun  here  expands  into  a  lake,  very  dark 
and  deep,  shut  in  by  steep  and  lofty  mountains. 
The  railway  runs  along  the  eastern  shore.  On 
the  other  side,  a  mile  away,  you  see  the  old 
town,  its  white  houses  clinging  to  the  cliff  like 
232 


• 


TROUT-FISHING  IN  THE  TEAUN 

lichens  to  the  face  of  a  rock.  The  guide-book 
calls  it  "  a  highly  original  situation."  But  this 
is  one  of  the  cases  where  a  little  less  originality 
and  a  little  more  reasonableness  might  be  de 
sired,  at  least  by  the  permanent  inhabitants.  A 
ledge  under  the  shadow  of  a  precipice  makes  a 
trying  winter  residence.  The  people  of  Hall- 
statt  are  not  a  blooming  race:  one  sees  many 
dwarfs  and  cripples  among  them.  But  to  the 
summer  traveller  the  place  seems  wonderfully 
picturesque.  Most  of  the  streets  are  flights  of 
steps.  The  high-road  has  barely  room  to  edge 
itself  through  among  the  old  houses,  between 
the  window-gardens  of  bright  flowers.  On  the 
hottest  July  day  the  afternoon  is  cool  and  shady. 
The  gay,  little  skiffs  and  long,  open  gondolas 
are  flitting  continually  along  the  lake,  which  is 
the  main  street  of  Hallstatt. 

The  incongruous,  but  comfortable,  modern 
hotel  has  a  huge  glass  veranda,  where  you  can 
eat  your  dinner  and  observe  human  nature  in 
its  transparent  holiday  disguises.  I  was  much 
pleased  and  entertained  by  a  family,  or  confed 
eracy,  of  people  attired  as  peasants  —  the  men 
with  feathered  hats,  green  stockings,  and  bare 
knees  —  the  women  with  bright  skirts,  bodices, 
and  silk  neckerchiefs  —  who  were  always  in 
evidence,  rowing  gondolas  with  clumsy  oars, 
meeting  the  steamboat  at  the  wharf  several 
233 


TROUT-FISHING  IN  THE  TEAUN 

times  a  day,  and  filling  the  miniature  garden  of 
the  hotel  with  rustic  greetings  and  early  Salz- 
kammergut  attitudes.  After  much  conjecture, 
I  learned  that  they  were  the  family  and  friends 
of  a  newspaper  editor  from  Vienna.  They  had 
the  literary  instinct  for  local  colour. 

The  fishing  at  Hallstatt  is  at  Obertraun. 
There  is  a  level  stretch  of  land  above  the  lake, 
where  the  river  flows  peaceably,  and  the  fish 
have  leisure  to  feed  and  grow.  It  is  leased  to  a 
peasant,  who  makes  a  business  of  supplying  the 
hotels  with  fish.  He  was  quite  willing  to  give 
permission  to  an  angler ;  and  I  engaged  one  of 
his  sons,  a  capital  young  fellow,  whose  natural 
capacities  for  good  fellowship  were  only  ham 
pered  by  a  most  extraordinary  German  dialect, 
to  row  me  across  the  lake,  and  carry  the  net 
and  a  small  green  barrel  full  of  water  to  keep 
the  fish  alive,  according  to  the  custom  of  the 
country.  The  first  day  we  had  only  four  trout 
large  enough  to  put  into  the  barrel;  the  next 
day  I  think  there  were  six ;  the  third  day,  I  re 
member  very  well,  there  were  ten.  They  were 
pretty  creatures,  weighing  from  half  a  pound  to 
a  pound  each,  and  coloured  as  daintily  as  bits  of 
French  silk,  in  silver  gray  with  faint  pink  spots. 

There  was  plenty  to  do  at  Hallstatt  in  the 
mornings.  An  hour's  walk  from  the  town  there 
was  a  fine  waterfall,  three  hundred  feet  high. 
234 


TROUT-FISHING  IN  THE  TEAUN 

On  the  side  of  the  mountain  above  the  lake  was 
one  of  the  salt-mines  for  which  the  region  is  cel 
ebrated.  It  has  been  worked  for  ages  by  many 
successive  races,  from  the  Celt  downward.  Per 
haps  even  the  men  of  the  Stone  Age  knew  of  it, 
and  came  hither  for  seasoning  to  make  the  flesh 
of  the  cave-bear  and  the  mammoth  more  palata 
ble.  Modern  pilgrims  are  permitted  to  explore 
the  long,  wet,  glittering  galleries  with  a  guide, 
and  slide  down  the  smooth  wooden  rollers  which 
join  the  different  levels  of  the  mines.  This  pas 
time  has  the  same  fascination  as  sliding  down 
the  balusters;  and  it  is  said  that  even  queens 
and  princesses  have  been  delighted  with  it. 
This  is  a  touching  proof  of  the  fundamental 
simplicity  and  unity  of  our  human  nature. 

But  by  far  the  best  excursion  from  Hallstatt 
was  an  all-day  trip  to  the  Zwieselalp  —  a  moun 
tain  which  seems  to  have  been  especially  created 
as  a  point  of  view.  From  the  bare  summit  you 
look  right  into  the  face  of  the  huge,  snowy 
Dachstein,  with  the  wild  lake  of  Gosau  gleaming 
at  its  foot;  and  far  away  on  the  other  side  your 
vision  ranges  over  a  confusion  of  mountains, 
with  all  the  white  peaks  of  the  Tyrol  stretched 
along  the  horizon.  Such  a  wide  outlook  as  this 
helps  the  fisherman  to  enjoy  the  narrow  beauties 
of  his  little  rivers.  No  sport  is  at  its  best  with 
out  interruption  and  contrast.  To  appreciate 
235 


TROUT-FISHING  IN  THE  TEAUN 

wading,  one  ought  to  climb  a  little  on  odd 
days. 

Ischl  is  about  ten  or  twelve  miles  below  Hall- 
statt,  in  the  valley  of  the  Traun.  It  is  the  fash 
ionable  summer-resort  of  Austria.  I  found  it 
in  the  high  tide  of  amusement.  The  shady 
esplanade  along  the  river  was  crowded  with 
brave  women  and  fair  men,  in  gorgeous  rai 
ment  ;  the  hotels  were  overflowing ;  and  there 
were  various  kinds  of  music  and  entertainments 
at  all  hours  of  day  and  night.  But  all  this  did 
not  seem  to  affect  the  fishing. 

The  landlord  of  the  Kbnigin  Elizabeth,  who 
is  also  the  Burgomaster  and  a  gentleman  of 
varied  accomplishments  and  no  leisure,  kindly 
furnished  me  with  a  fishing  license  in  the  shape 
of  a  large  pink  card.  There  were  many  rules 
printed  upon  it :  "  All  fishes  under  nine  inches 
must  be  gently  restored  to  the  water.  No  in 
strument  of  capture  must  be  used  except  the 
angle  in  the  hand.  The  card  of  legitimation 
must  be  produced  and  exhibited  at  the  polite 
request  of  any  of  the  keepers  of  the  river." 
Thus  duly  authorized  and  instructed,  I  sallied 
forth  to  seek  my  pastime  according  to  the  law. 

The  easiest  way,  in  theory,  was  to  take  the 
afternoon  train  up  the  river  to  one  of  the  vil 
lages,  and  fish  down  a  mile  or  two  in  the  even 
ing,  returning  by  the  eight  o'clock  train.  But 
236 


TROUT-FISHING  IN  THE  TRAUN 

in  practice  the  habits  of  the  fish  interfered  seri 
ously  with  the  latter  part  of  this  plan. 

On  my  first  day  I  had  spent  several  hours  in 
the  vain  effort  to  catch  something  better  than 
small  grayling.    The  best  time  for  the  trout  was 
just  approaching,  as  the  broad  light  faded  from 
the  stream ;    already   they   were    beginning   to 
feed,  when  I  looked  up  from  the  edge  of  a  pool 
and  saw  the  train  rattling  down  the  valley  below 
me.     Under  the  circumstances  the  only  thing  to 
do  was  to  go  on  fishing.     It  was  an  even  pool 
with  steep  banks,  and  the  water  ran  through  it 
very  straight  and  swift,  some  four  feet  deep  and 
thirty  yards  across.     As  the  tail-fly  reached  the 
middle  of  the  water,  a  fine  trout  literally  turned 
a  somersault  over  it,  but  without  touching  it. 
At  the  next  cast  he  was  ready,  taking  it  with  a 
rush  that  carried  him  into  the  air  with  the  fly 
in  his  mouth.     He  weighed  three-quarters  of  a 
pound.     The  next  one  was  equally  eager  in  ris 
ing  and  sharp  in  playing,  and  the  third  might 
have  been  his  twin  sister  or  brother.     So,  after 
casting  for  hours   and   taking   nothing   in   the 
most  beautiful  pools,  I  landed  three  trout  from 
one  unlikely  place  in  fifteen  minutes.    That  was 
because  the  trout's  supper-time  had  arrived.    So 
had  mine.     I  walked  over  to  the  rambling  old 
inn  at  Goisern,  sought  the  cook  in  the  kitchen, 
and  persuaded  her,  in  spite  of  the  lateness  of  the 
237 


TROUT-FISHING  IN  THE  TEAUN 

hour,  to  boil  the  largest  of  the  fish  for  my  sup 
per,  after  which  I  rode  peacefully  back  to  Ischl 
by  the  eleven  o'clock  train. 

For  the  future  I  resolved  to  give  up  the  illu 
sory  idea  of  coming  home  by  rail,  and  ordered 
a  little  one-horse  carriage  to  meet  me  at  some 
point  on  the  high-road  every  evening  at  nine 
o'clock.  In  this  way  I  managed  to  cover  the 
whole  stream,  taking  a  lower  part  each  day, 
from  the  lake  of  Hallstatt  down  to  Ischl. 

There  was  one  part  of  the  river,  near  Laufen, 
where  the  current  was  very  strong  and  water- 
fally,  broken  by  ledges  of  rock.  Below  these  it 
rested  in  long,  smooth  reaches,  much  beloved  by 
the  grayling.  There  was  no  difficulty  in  getting 
two  or  three  of  them  out  of  each  run. 

The  grayling  has  a  quaint  beauty.  His 
appearance  is  aesthetic,  like  a  fish  in  a  pre- 
Raphaelite  picture.  His  colour,  in  midsummer, 
is  a  golden  gray,  darker  on  the  back,  and  with 
a  few  black  spots  just  behind  his  gills,  like 
patches  put  on  to  bring  out  the  pallor  of  his 
complexion.  He  smells  of  wild  thyme  when  he 
first  comes  out  of  the  water,  wherefore  St.  Am 
brose  of  Milan  complimented  him  in  courtly 
fashion:  "Quid  specie  tua  gratiusf  Quid 
odore  fragrantius  ?  Quod  mella  fragrant,  hoc 
tuo  corpore  spiras"  But  the  chief  glory  of 
the  grayling  is  the  large  iridescent  fin  on  his 
238 


TROUT-FISHING  IN  THE  TEAUN 

back.  You  see  it  cutting  the  water  as  he  swims 
near  the  surface ;  and  when  you  have  him  on 
the  bank  it  arches  over  him  like  a  rainbow. 
His  mouth  is  under  his  chin,  and  he  takes  the 
fly  gently,  by  suction.  He  is,  in  fact,  and  to 
speak  plainly,  something  of  a  sucker ;  but  then 
he  is  a  sucker  idealized  and  refined,  the  flower 
of  the  family.  Charles  Cotton,  the  ingenious 
young  friend  of  Walton,  was  all  wrong  in  call 
ing  the  grayling  "one  of  the  deadest-hearted 
fishes  in  the  world."  He  fights  and  leaps  and 
whirls,  and  brings  his  big  fin  to  bear  across  the 
force  of  the  current  with  a  variety  of  tactics 
that  would  put  his  more  aristocratic  fellow- 
citizen,  the  trout,  to  the  blush.  Twelve  of  these 
pretty  fellows,  with  a  brace  of  good  trout  for 
the  top,  filled  my  big  creel  to  the  brim.  And 
yet,  such  is  the  inborn  hypocrisy  of  the  human 
heart  that  I  always  pretended  to  myself  to  be 
disappointed  because  there  were  not  more  trout, 
and  made  light  of  the  grayling  as  a  thing  of 
naught. 

The  pink  fishing  license  did  not  seem  to  be  of 
much  use.  Its  exhibition  was  demanded  only 
twice.  Once  a  river  guardian,  who  was  walking 
down  the  stream  with  a  Belgian  Baron  and  en 
couraging  him  to  continue  fishing,  climbed  out 
to  me  on  the  end  of  a  long  embankment,  and 
with  proper  apologies  begged  to  be  favoured  with 
239 


TROUT-FISHING  IN  THE  TEAUN 

a  view  of  my  document.  It  turned  out  that  his 
request  was  a  favour  to  me,  for  it  discovered  the 
fact  that  I  had  left  my  fly-book,  with  the  pink 
card  in  it,  beside  an  old  mill,  a  quarter  of  a  mile 
up  the  stream. 

Another  time  I  was  sitting  beside  the  road, 
trying  to  get  out  of  a  very  long,  wet,  awkward 
pair  of  wading-stockings,  an  occupation  which 
is  unfavourable  to  tranquillity  of  mind,  when  a 
man  came  up  to  me  in  the  dusk  and  accosted 
me  with  an  absence  of  politeness  which  in  Ger 
man  amounted  to  an  insult. 

"  Have  you  been  fishing  ?  " 

"  Why  do  you  want  to  know  ?  " 

"  Have  you  any  right  to  fish  ?  " 

"  What  right  have  you  ask  ?  " 

"  I  am  a  keeper  of  the  river.  Where  is  your 
card?" 

"  It  is  in  my  pocket.  But  pardon  my  curi 
osity,  where  is  your  card?" 

This  question  appeared  to  paralyze  him.  He 
had  probably  never  been  asked  for  his  card 
before.  He  went  lumbering  off  in  the  dark 
ness,  muttering  "  My  card  ?  Unheard  of !  My 
card!" 

The  routine  of  angling  at  Ischl  was  varied 

by  an  excursion  to  the  Lake  of  St.  Wolfgang 

and  the   Schafberg,  an   isolated   mountain   on 

whose   rocky  horn  an   inn  has  been  built.     It 

240 


I 


TROUT-FISHING  IN  THE  TEAUN 

stands  up  almost  like  a  bird-house  on  a  pole, 
and  commands  a  superb  prospect;  northward, 
across  the  rolling  plain  and  the  Bavarian  forest ; 
southward,  over  a  tumultuous  land  of  peaks  and 
precipices.  There  are  many  lovely  lakes  in 
sight ;  but  the  loveliest  of  all  is  that  which  takes 
its  name  from  the  old  saint  who  wandered 
hither  from  the  country  of  the  "  furious 
Franks  "  and  built  his  peaceful  hermitage  on 
the  Falkenstein.  What  good  taste  some  of  those 
old  saints  had ! 

There  is  a  venerable  church  in  the  village, 
with  pictures  attributed  to  Michael  Wohlgemuth, 
and  a  chapel  which  is  said  to  mark  the  spot 
where  St.  Wolfgang,  who  had  lost  his  axe  far 
up  the  mountain,  found  it,  like  Longfellow's 
arrow,  in  an  oak,  and  "  still  unbroke."  The 
tree  is  gone,  so  it  was  impossible  to  verify  the 
story.  But  the  saint's  well  is  there,  in  a  pavil 
ion,  with  a  bronze  image  over  it,  and  a  profitable 
inscription  to  the  effect  that  the  poorer  pil 
grims,  "  who  have  come  unprovided  with  either 
money  or  wine,  should  be  jolly  well  contented 
to  find  the  water  so  fine."  There  is  also  a 
famous  echo  farther  up  the  lake,  which  repeats 
six  syllables  with  accuracy.  It  is  a  strange  co 
incidence  that  there  are  just  six  syllables  in  the 
name  of  "der  heilige  Wolfgang."  But  when 
you  translate  it  into  English,  the  inspiration  of 
241 


TEOUT-FISHING  IN  THE  TRAUN 

the  echo  seems  to  be  less  exact.  The  sweetest 
thing  about  St.  Wolfgang  was  the  abundance  of 
purple  cyclamens,  clothing  the  mountain  mead 
ows,  and  filling  the  air  with  delicate  fragrance 
like  the  smell  of  lilacs  around  a  New  England 
farm-house  in  early  June. 

There  was  still  one  stretch  of  the  river  above 
Ischl  left  for  the  last  evening's  sport.  I  re 
member  it  so  well :  the  long,  deep  place  where 
the  water  ran  beside  an  embankment  of  stone, 
and  the  big  grayling  poised  on  the  edge  of  the 
shadow,  rising  and  falling  on  the  current  as  a 
kite  rises  and  falls  on  the  wind  and  balances 
back  to  the  same  position ;  the  murmur  of  the 
stream  and  the  hissing  of  the  pebbles  underfoot 
in  the  rapids  as  the  swift  water  rolled  them  over 
and  over;  the  odour  of  the  fir-trees,  and  the 
streaks  of  warm  air  in  quiet  places,  and  the 
faint  whiffs  of  wood-smoke  wafted  from  the 
houses,  and  the  brown  flies  dancing  heavily  up 
and  down  in  the  twilight ;  the  last  good  pool, 
where  the  river  was  divided,  the  main  part  mak 
ing  a  deep,  narrow  curve  to  the  right,  and  the 
lesser  part  bubbling  into  it  over  a  bed  of  stones 
with  half-a-dozen  tiny  waterfalls,  with  a  fine 
trout  lying  at  the  foot  of  each  of  them  and  ris 
ing  merrily  as  the  white  fly  passed  over  him  — 
surely  it  was  all  very  good,  and  a  memory  to  be 
grateful  for.  And  when  the  basket  was  full,  it 
242 


TROUT-FISHING  IN  THE  TRAUN 

was  pleasant  to  put  off  the  heavy  wading-shoes 
and  the  long  rubber-stockings,  and  ride  home 
ward  in  an  open  carriage  through  the  fresh 
night  air.  That  is  as  near  to  sybaritic  luxury 
as  a  man  should  care  to  come. 

The  lights  in  the  cottages  are  twinkling  like 
fire-flies,  and  there  are  small  groups  of  people 
singing  and  laughing  down  the  road.  The 
honest  fisherman  reflects  that  this  world  is  only 
a  place  of  pilgrimage,  but  after  all  there  is  a 
good  deal  of  cheer  on  the  journey,  if  it  is  made 
with  a  contented  heart.  He  wonders  who  the 
dwellers  in  the  scattered  houses  may  be,  and 
weaves  romances  out  of  the  shadows  on  the  cur 
tained  windows.  The  lamps  burning  in  the 
wayside  shrines  tell  him  stories  of  human  love 
and  patience  and  hope,  and  of  divine  forgive 
ness.  Dream-pictures  of  life  float  before  him, 
tender  and  luminous,  filled  with  a  vague,  soft 
atmosphere  in  which  the  simplest  outlines  gain 
a  strange  significance.  They  are  like  some  of 
Millet's  paintings  —  " The  Sower,"  or  "The 
Sheepf old," --there  is  very  little  detail  in  them ; 
but  sometimes  a  little  means  so  much. 

Then  the  moon  slips  up  into  the  sky  from 
behind  the  eastern  hills,  and  the  fisherman  be 
gins  to  think  of  home,  and  of  the  foolish,  fond 
old  rhymes  about  those  whom  the  moon  sees 
far  away,  and  the  stars  that  have  the  power  to 
243 


TROUT-FISHING  IN  THE  TEAUN 

fulfil  wishes  —  as  if  the  celestial  bodies  knew 
or  cared  anything  about  our  small  nerve-thrills 
which  we  call  affection  and  desires !  But  if 
there  were  Some  One  above  the  moon  and  stars 
who  did  know  and  care,  Some  One  who  could 
see  the  places  and  the  people  that  you  and  I 
would  give  so  much  to  see,  Some  One  who  coidd 
do  for  them  all  of  kindness  that  you  and  I  fain 
would  do,  Some  One  able  to  keep  our  beloved  in 
perfect  peace  and  watch  over  the  little  children 
sleeping  in  their  beds  beyond  the  sea  —  what 
then  ?  Why,  then,  in  the  evening  hour,  one 
might  have  thoughts  of  home  that  would  go 
across  the  ocean  by  way  of  heaven,  and  be  bet 
ter  than  dreams,  almost  as  good  as  prayers. 
244 


AT  THE   SIGN  OF  THE  BALSAM  BOUGH 


u  Come  live  with  me,  and  be  my  love, 
A  nd  we  will  all  the  pleasures  prove 
That  valleys,  groves^  or  hills,  or  field, 
Or  woods  and  steepy  mountains  yield. 

"  There  we  will  rest  our  sleepy  heads, 
A  nd  happy  hearts,  on  balsam  beds  / 
A  nd  every  day  go  forth  to  fish 
In  foamy  streams  for  ouananiche  .n 

Old  Song  with  a  New  Ending. 


•  x  '"^  n  v>       /  •    f 


AT  THE  SIGN  OF  THE  BALSAM  BOUGH 

IT  has  been  asserted,  on  high  philosophical 
authority,  that  woman  is  a  problem.  She  is 
more  ;  she  is  a  cause  of  problems  to  others.  This 
is  not  a  theoretical  statement.  It  is  a  fact  of 
experience. 

Every  year,  when  the  sun  passes  the  summer 
solstice,  the 

"  Two  souls  with  but  a  single  thought," 

of  whom  I  am  so  fortunate  as  to  be  one,  are  sum 
moned  by  that  portion  of  our  united  mind  which 
has  at  once  the  right  of  putting  the  question  and 
of  casting  the  deciding  vote,  to  answer  this  con 
undrum  :  How  can  we  go  abroad  without  cross 
ing  the  ocean,  and  abandon  an  interesting  family 
of  children  without  getting  completely  beyond 
their  reach,  and  escape  from  the  frying-pan  of 
housekeeping  without  falling  into  the  fire  of  the 
summer  hotel  ?  This  apparently  insoluble  prob 
lem  we  usually  solve  by  going  to  camp  in  Canada. 
It  is  indeed  a  foreign  air  that  breathes  around 
us  as  we  make  the  harmless,  friendly  voyage 
from  Point  Levis  to  Quebec.  The  boy  on  the 
247 


AT  THE  SIGN  OF  THE  BALSAM  BOUGU 

ferry-boat,  who  cajoles  us  into  buying  a  copy  of 
Le  Moniteur  containing  last  month's  news,  has 
the  address  of  a  true  though  diminutive  French 
man.  The  landlord  of  the  quiet  little  inn  on 
the  outskirts  of  the  town  welcomes  us  with  Gallic 
effusion  as  well-known  guests,  and  rubs  his 
hands  genially  before  us,  while  he  escorts  us  to 
our  apartments,  groping  secretly  in  his  memory 
to  recall  our  names.  When  we  walk  down  the 
steep,  quaint  streets  to  revel  in  the  purchase  of 
moccasins  and  water-proof  coats  and  camping 
supplies,  we  read  on  a  wall  the  familiar  but 
transformed  legend,  L *  enfant  pleurs,  il  veut  son 
Camphoria,  and  remember  with  joy  that  no  in 
fant  who  weeps  in  French  can  impose  any  re 
sponsibility  upon  us  in  these  days  of  our  renewed 
honeymoon. 

But  the  true  delight  of  the  expedition  begins 
when  the  tents  have  been  set  up,  in  the  forest 
back  of  Lake  St.  John,  and  the  green  branches 
have  been  broken  for  the  woodland  bed,  and  the 
fire  has  been  lit  under  the  open  sky,  and,  the 
livery  of  fashion  being  all  discarded,  I  sit  down 
at  a  log  table  to  eat  supper  with  my  lady  Grey- 
gown.  Then  life  seems  simple  and  amiable  and 
well  worth  living.  Then  the  uproar  and  con 
fusion  of  the  world  die  away  from  us,  and  we 
hear  only  the  steady  murmur  of  the  river  and 
the  low  voice  of  the  wind  in  the  tree-tops.  Then 
248 


And  every  day  g'o  forth  to  fish 
In  foaming  streams  for  Ouananiche 


AT  THE  SIGN  OF  THE  BALSAM  BOUGH 

time  is  long,  and  the  only  art  that  is  needful  for 
its  enjoyment  is  short  and  easy.  Then  we  taste 
true  comfort,  while  we  lodge  with  Mother  Green 
at  the  Sign  of  the  Balsam  Bough. 


UNDER   THE   WHITE   BIRCHES. 

Men  may  say  what  they  will  in  praise  of  their 
houses,  and  grow  eloquent  upon  the  merits  of 
various  styles  of  architecture,  but,  for  our  part, 
we  are  agreed  that  there  is  nothing  to  be  com 
pared  with  a  tent.  It  is  the  most  venerable  and 
aristocratic  form  of  human  habitation.  Abra 
ham  and  Sarah  lived  in  it,  and  shared  its  hospi 
tality  with  angels.  It  is  exempt  from  the  base 
tyranny  of  the  plumber,  the  paper-hanger,  and 
the  gas-man.  It  is  not  immovably  bound  to  one 
dull  spot  of  earth  by  the  chains  of  a  cellar  and 
a  system  of  water-pipes.  It  has  a  noble  free 
dom  of  locomotion.  It  follows  the  wishes  of  its 
inhabitants,  and  goes  with  them,  a  travelling 
home,  as  the  spirit  moves  them  to  explore  the 
wilderness.  At  their  pleasure,  new  beds  of  wild 
flowers  surround  it,  new  plantations  of  trees 
overshadow  it,  and  new  avenues  of  shining  water 
lead  to  its  ever-open  door.  What  the  tent  lacks 
in  luxury  it  makes  up  in  liberty :  or  rather  let 
us  say  that  liberty  itself  is  the  greatest  luxury. 
249 


AT  THE  SIGN  OF  THE  BALSAM  BOUGH 

Another  thing  is  worth  remembering  —  a  fam 
ily  which  lives  in  a  tent  never  can  have  a  skeleton 
in  the  closet. 

But  it  must  not  be  supposed  that  every  spot 
in  the  woods  is  suitable  for  a  camp,  or  that 
a  good  tenting-ground  can  be  chosen  without 
knowledge  and  forethought.  One  of  the  re 
quisites,  indeed,  is  to  be  found  everywhere  in  the 
St.  John  region  ;  for  all  the  lakes  and  rivers  are 
full  of  clear,  cool  water,  and  the  traveller  does 
not  need  to  search  for  a  spring.  But  it  is  always 
necessary  to  look  carefully  for  a  bit  of  smooth 
ground  on  the  shore,  far  enough  above  the  water 
to  be  dry,  and  slightly  sloping,  so  that  the  head 
of  the  bed  may  be  higher  than  the  foot.  Above 
all,  it  must  be  free  from  big  stones  and  serpen 
tine  roots  of  trees.  A  root  that  looks  no  bigger 
than  an  inch-worm  in  the  daytime  assumes  the 
proportions  of  a  boa-constrictor  at  midnight  — 
when  you  find  it  under  your  hip-bone.  There 
should  also  be  plenty  of  evergreens  near  at  hand 
for  the  beds.  Spruce  will  answer  at  a  pinch  ;  it 
has  an  aromatic  smell ;  but  it  is  too  stiff  and 
humpy.  Hemlock  is  smoother  and  more  flex 
ible  ;  but  the  spring  soon  wears  out  of  it.  The 
balsam-fir,  with  its  elastic  branches  and  thick 
flat  needles,  is  the  best  of  all.  A  bed  of  these 
boughs  a  foot  deep  is  softer  than  a  mattress  and 
as  fragrant  as  a  thousand  Christmas-trees.  Two 
250 


AT  THE  SIGN  OF  THE  BALSAM  BOUGH 

things  more  are  needed  for  the  ideal  camp-ground 
—  an  open  situation,  where  the  breeze  will  drive 
away  the  flies  and  mosquitoes,  and  an  abundance 
of  dry  firewood  within  easy  reach.  Yes,  and  a 
third  thing  must  not  be  forgotten ;  for,  says  my 
lady  Greygown : 

"  I  should  n't  feel  at  home  in  camp  unless  I 
could  sit  in  the  door  of  the  tent  and  look  out 
across  flowing  water." 

All  these  conditions  are  met  in  our  favourite 
camping  place  below  the  first  fall  in  the  Grande 
Decharge.  A  rocky  point  juts  out  into  the  river 
and  makes  a  fine  landing  for  the  canoes.  There 
is  a  dismantled  fishing-cabin  a  few  rods  back  in 
the  woods,  from  which  we  can  borrow  boards  for 
a  table  and  chairs.  A  group  of  cedars  on  the 
lower  edge  of  the  point  opens  just  wide  enough 
to  receive  and  shelter  our  tent.  At  a  good  dis 
tance  beyond  ours,  the  guides'  tent  is  pitched ; 
and  the  big  camp-fire  burns  between  the  two 
dwellings.  A  pair  of  white  birches  lift  their 
leafy  crowns  far  above  us,  and  after  them  we 
name  the  place  Le  Camp  aux  Bouleaux. 

"  Why  not  call  trees  people?  —  since,  if  you 
come  to  live  among  them  year  after  year,  you 
will  learn  to  know  many  of  them  personally,  and 
an  attachment  will  grow  up  between  you  and 
them  individually."  So  writes  that  Doctor  Am- 
aUlis  of  woodcraft,  W.  C.  Prime,  in  his  book, 
251 


AT  THE  SIGN  OF  THE  BALSAM  BOUGH 

Among  the  Northern  Hills,  and  straightway 
launches  forth  into  eulogy  on  the  white  birch. 
And  truly  it  is  an  admirable,  lovable,  and  com 
fortable  tree,  beautiful  to  look  upon  and  full  of 
various  uses.  Its  wood  is  strong  to  make  pad 
dles  and  axe  handles,  and  glorious  to  burn,  blaz 
ing  up  at  first  with  a  flashing  flame,  and  then 
holding  the  fire  in  its  glowing  heart  all  through 
the  night.  Its  bark  is  the  most  serviceable  of 
all  the  products  of  the  wilderness.  In  Russia, 
they  say,  it  is  used  in  tanning,  and  gives  its  sub 
tle,  sacerdotal  fragrance  to  liussia  leather.  But 
here,  in  the  woods,  it  serves  more  primitive  ends. 
It  can  be  peeled  off  in  a  huge  roll  from  some 
giant  tree  and  fashioned  into  a  swift  canoe  to 
carry  man  over  the  waters.  It  can  be  cut  into 
square  sheets  to  roof  his  shanty  in  the  forest. 
It  is  the  paper  on  which  he  writes  his  woodland 
despatches,  and  the  flexible  material  which  he 
bends  into  drinking-cups  of  silver  lined  with 
gold.  A  thin  strip  of  it  wrapped  around  the 
end  of  a  candle  and  fastened  in  a  cleft  stick 
makes  a  practicable  chandelier.  A  basket  for 
berries,  a  horn  to  call  the  lovelorn  moose  through 
the  autumnal  woods,  a  canvas  on  which  to  draw 
the  outline  of  great  and  memorable  fish  —  all 
these  and  many  other  indispensable  luxuries  are 
stored  up  for  the  skilful  woodsman  in  the  birch 
bark. 

252 


AT  THE  SIGN  OF  THE  BALSAM  BOUGH 

Only  do  not  rob  or  mar  the  tree,  unless  you 
really  need  what  it  has  to  give  you.  Let  it 
stand  and  grow  in  virgin  majesty,  ungirdled  and 
unscarred,  while  the  trunk  becomes  a  firm  pillar 
of  the  forest  temple,  and  the  branches  spread 
abroad  a  refuge  of  bright  green  leaves  for  the 
birds  of  the  air.  Nature  never  made  a  more 
excellent  piece  of  handiwork.  "  And  if,"  said 
my  lady  Greygown,  "I  should  ever  become  a 
dryad,  I  would  choose  to  be  transformed  into  a 
white  birch.  And  then,  when  the  days  of  my 
life  were  numbered,  and  the  sap  had  ceased  to 
flow,  and  the  last  leaf  had  fallen,  and  the  dry 
bark  hung  around  me  in  ragged  curls  and 
streamers,  some  wandering  hunter  would  come 
in  the  wintry  night  and  touch  a  lighted  coal  to 
my  body,  and  my  spirit  would  flash  up  in  a  fiery 
chariot  into  the  sky." 

The  chief  occupation  of  our  idle  days  on  the 
Grande  Decharge  was  fishing.  Above  the  camp 
spread  a  noble  pool,  more  than  two  miles  in  cir 
cumference,  and  diversified  with  smooth  bays 
and  whirling  eddies,  sand  beaches  and  rocky 
islands.  The  river  poured  into  it  at  the  head, 
foaming  and  raging  down  a  long  chute,  and 
swept  out  of  it  just  in  front  of  our  camp  in  a 
merry,  musical  rapid.  It  was  full  of  fish  of 
various  kinds  —  long-nosed  pickerel,  wall-eyed 
pike,  and  stupid  chub.  But  the  prince  of  the 
253 


AT  THE  SIGN  OF  THE  BALSAM  BOUGH 

pool  was  the  fighting  ouananiche,  the  little  sal 
mon  of  St.  John. 

Here  let  me  chant  thy  praise,  thou  noblest 
and  most  high-minded  fish,  the  cleanest  feeder, 
the  merriest  liver,  the  loftiest  leaper,  and  the 
bravest  warrior  of  all  creatures  that  swim !  Thy 
cousin,  the  trout,  in  his  purple  and  gold  with 
crimson  spots,  wears  a  more  splendid  armour 
than  thy  russet  and  silver  mottled  with  black, 
but  thine  is  the  kinglier  nature.  His  courage 
and  skill  compared  with  thine 

' '  Are  as  moonlight  unto  sunlight,  and  as  water  unto  wine." 

The  old  salmon  of  the  sea  who  begot  thee,  long 
ago,  in  these  inland  waters,  became  a  backslider, 
descending  again  to  the  ocean,  and  grew  gross 
and  heavy  with  coarse  feeding.  But  thou,  un- 
salted  salmon  of  the  foaming  floods,  not  land 
locked,  as  men  call  thee,  but  choosing  of  thine 
own  free-will  to  dwell  on  a  loftier  level,  in  the 
pure,  swift  current  of  a  living  stream,  hast 
grown  in  grace  and  risen  to  a  higher  life.  Thou 
art  not  to  be  measured  by  quantity,  but  by 
quality,  and  thy  five  pounds  of  pure  vigour  will 
outweigh  a  score  of  pounds  of  flesh  less  vital 
ized  by  spirit.  Thou  feedest  on  the  flies  of  the 
air,  and  thy  food  is  transformed  into  an  aerial 
passion  for  flight,  as  thou  springest  across  the 
pool,  vaulting  towards  the  sky.  Thine  eyes 
254 


AT  THE  SIGN  OF  THE  BALSAM  BOUGH 

have  grown  large  and  keen  by  peering  through 
the  foam,  and  the  feathered  hook  that  can  de 
ceive  thee  must  be  deftly  tied  and  delicately 
cast.  Thy  tail  and  fins,  by  ceaseless  conflict 
with  the  rapids,  have  broadened  and  strength 
ened,  so  that  they  can  flash  thy  slender  body 
like  a  living  arrow  up  the  fall.  As  Lancelot 
among  the  knights,  so  art  thou  among  the  fish, 
the  plain-armoured  hero,  the  sunburnt  champion 
of  all  the  water-folk. 

Every  morning  and   evening,  Greygown  and 
I  would  go  out  for  ouananiche,  and  sometimes 
we  caught  plenty  and  sometimes  few,  but  we 
never  came  back  without  a  good  catch  of  happi 
ness.     There  were  certain  places  where  the  fish 
liked  to  stay.     For  example,  we  always  looked 
for  one  at  the  lower  corner  of  a  big  rock,  very 
close  to  it,  where  he  could  poise  himself  easily 
on  the  edge   of   the  strong  downward  stream. 
Another  likely  place  was  a  straight  run  of  wa 
ter,  swift,  but  not  too  swift,  with  a  sunken  stone 
in  the  middle.     The  ouananiche  does  not  like 
crooked,  twisting  water.    An  even  current  is  far 
more  comfortable,  for  then  he  discovers  just  how 
much  effort  is  needed  to  balance  against  it,  and 
keeps  up  the  movement  mechanically,  as  if  he 
were  half  asleep.     But  his  favourite  place  is  un 
der  one  of  the  floating  islands  of  thick  foam 
that  gather  in  the  corners  below  the  falls.     The 
255 


AT  THE  SIGN  OF  THE  BALSAM  BOUGH 

matted  flakes  give  a  grateful  shelter  from  the 
sun,  I  fancy,  and  almost  all  game-fish  love  to 
lie  in  the  shade ;  but  the  chief  reason  why  the 
ouananiche  haunt  the  drifting  white  mass  is  be 
cause  it  is  full  of  flies  and  gnats,  beaten  down 
by  the  spray  of  the  cataract,  and  sprinkled  all 
through  the  foam  like  plums  in  a  cake.  To  this 
natural  confection  the  little  salmon,  lurking  in 
his  corner,  plays  the  part  of  Jack  Horner  all  day 
long,  and  never  wearies. 

"  See  that  belle  Iron  down  below  there !  "  said 
Ferdinand,  as  we  scrambled  over  the  huge  rocks 
at  the  foot  of  the  falls ;  "  there  ought  to  be 
salmon  there  en  masse."  Yes,  there  were  the 
sharp  noses  picking  out  the  unfortunate  insects, 
and  the  broad  tails  waving  lazily  through  the 
foam  as  the  fish  turned  in  the  water.  At  this 
season  of  the  year,  when  summer  is  nearly  ended, 
and  every  ouananiche  in  the  Grand  Decharge 
has  tasted  feathers  and  seen  a  hook,  it  is  useless 
to  attempt  to  delude  them  with  the  large  gaudy 
flies  which  the  fishing-tackle-maker  recommends. 
There  are  only  two  successful  methods  of  angling 
now.  The  first  of  these  I  tried,  and  by  casting 
delicately  with  a  tiny  brown  trout-fly  tied  on  a 
gossamer  strand  of  gut,  captured  a  pair  of  fish 
weighing  about  three  pounds  each.  They  fought 
against  the  spring  of  the  four -ounce  rod  for 
nearly  half  an  hour  before  Ferdinand  could  slip 
256 


AT  THE  SIGN  OF  THE  BALSAM  BOUGH 

the  net  around  them.  But  there  was  another 
and  a  broader  tail  still  waving  disdainfully  on 
the  outer  edge  of  the  foam.  "  And  now,"  said 
the  gallant  Ferdinand,  "  the  turn  is  to  madame, 
that  she  should  prove  her  fortune  —  attend  but 
a  moment,  madame,  while  I  seek  the  sauterelle." 
This  was  the  second  method:  the  grasshop 
per  was  attached  to  the  hook,  and  casting  the 
line  well  out  across  the  pool,  Ferdinand  put  the 
rod  into  Greygown's  hands.  She  stood  poised 
upon  a  pinnacle  of  rock,  like  patience  on  a 
monument,  waiting  for  a  bite.  It  came.  There 
was  a  slow,  gentle  pull  at  the  line,  answered  by 
a  quick  jerk  of  the  rod,  and  a  noble  fish  flashed 
into  the  air.  Four  pounds  and  a  half  at  least ! 
He  leaped  again  and  again,  shaking  the  drops 
from  his  silvery  sides.  He  rushed  up  the  rapids 
as  if  he  had  determined  to  return  to  the  lake, 
and  down  again  as  if  he  had  changed  his  plans 
and  determined  to  go  to  the  Saguenay.  He 
sulked  in  the  deep  water  and  rubbed  his  nose 
against  the  rocks.  He  did  his  best  to  treat  that 
treacherous  grasshopper  as  the  whale  served 
Jonah.  But  Greygown,  through  all  her  little 
screams  and  shouts  of  excitement,  was  steady 
and  sage.  She  never  gave  the  fish  an  inch  of 
slack  line ;  and  at  last  he  lay  glittering  on 
the  rocks,  with  the  black  St.  Andrew's  crosses 
clearly  marked  on  his  plump  sides,  and  the  iri- 
257 


AT  THE  SIGN  OF  THE  BALSAM  BOUGH 

descent  spots  gleaming  on  his  small,  shapely 
head.  "  Une  belle!"  cried  Ferdinand,  as  he 
held  up  the  fish  in  triumph,  "  and  it  is  madame 
who  has  the  good  fortune.  She  understands 
well  to  take  the  large  fish  —  is  it  not  ?  "  Grey- 
gown  stepped  demurely  down  from  her  pinnacle, 
and  as  we  drifted  down  the  pool  in  the  canoe, 
under  the  mellow  evening  sky,  her  conversation 
betrayed  not  a  trace  of  the  pride  that  a  victori 
ous  fisherman  would  have  shown.  On  the  con 
trary,  she  insisted  that  angling  was  an  affair  of 
chance  —  which  was  consoling,  though  I  knew  it 
was  not  altogether  true  —  and  that  the  smaller 
fish  were  just  as  pleasant  to  catch  and  better  to 
eat,  after  all.  For  a  generous  rival,  commend 
me  to  a  woman.  And  if  I  must  compete,  let 
it  be  with  one  who  has  the  grace  to  dissolve  the 
bitter  of  defeat  in  the  honey  of  a  mutual  self- 
congratulation. 

We  had  a  garden,  and  our  favourite  path 
through  it  was  the  portage  leading  around  the 
falls.  We  travelled  it  very  frequently,  making 
an  excuse  of  idle  errands  to  the  steamboat-land 
ing  on  the  lake,  and  sauntering  along  the  trail 
as  if  school  were  out  and  would  never  keep 
again.  It  was  the  season  of  fruits  rather  than 
of  flowers.  Nature  was  reducing  the  decora 
tions  of  her  table  to  make  room  for  the  ban 
quet.  She  offered  us  berries  instead  of  blossoms. 
258 


Une  Belle" 


AT  THE  SIGN  OF  THE  BALSAM  BOUGH 

There  were  the  light  coral  clusters  of  the 
dwarf  cornel  set  in  whorls  of  pointed  leaves ; 
and  the  deep  blue  bells  of  the  Clintonia  bore- 
alls  (which  the  White  Mountain  people  call  the 
bear-berry,  and  I  hope  the  name  will  stick,  for 
it  smacks  of  the  woods,  and  it  is  a  shame  to 
leave  so  free  and  wild  a  plant  under  the  burden 
of  a  Latin  name) ;  and  the  gray,  crimson- 
veined  berries  for  which  the  Canada  Mayflower 
had  exchanged  its  feathery  white  bloom ;  and 
the  ruby  drops  of  the  twisted  stalk  hanging  like 
jewels  along  its  bending  stem.  On  the  three- 
leaved  table  which  once  carried  the  gay  flower 
of  the  wake-robin,  there  was  a  scarlet  lump  like 
a  red  pepper  escaped  to  the  forest  and  run  wild. 
The  partridge-vine  was  full  of  rosy  provision  for 
the  birds.  The  dark  tiny  leaves  of  the  creeping 
snow-berry  were  all  sprinkled  over  with  delicate 
drops  of  spicy  foam.  There  were  a  few  belated 
raspberries,  and,  if  we  chose  to  go  out  into  the 
burnt  ground,  we  could  find  blueberries  in 
plenty. 

But  there  was  still  bloom  enough  to  give  that 
festal  air  without  which  the  most  abundant  feast 
seems  coarse  and  vulgar.  The  pale  gold  of  the 
loosestrife  had  faded,  but  the  deeper  yellow  of 
the  goldenrod  had  begun  to  take  its  place.  The 
blue  banners  of  the  fleur-de-lis  had  vanished 
from  beside  the  springs,  but  the  purple  of  the 
259 


AT  THE  SIGN  OF  THE  BALSAM  BOUGH 

asters  was  appearing.  Closed  gentians  kept 
their  secret  inviolate,  and  bluebells  trembled 
above  the  rocks.  The  quaint  pinkish-white 
flowers  of  the  turtle-head  showed  in  wet  places, 
and  instead  of  the  lilac  racemes  of  the  purple- 
fringed  orchis,  which  had  disappeared  with  mid 
summer,  we  found  now  the  slender  braided 
spikes  of  the  lady's-tresses,  latest  and  lowliest 
of  the  orchids,  pale  and  pure  as  nuns  of  the 
forest,  and  exhaling  a  celestial  fragrance.  There 
is  a  secret  pleasure  in  finding  these  delicate 
flowers  in  the  rough  heart  of  the  wilderness. 
It  is  like  discovering  the  veins  of  poetry  in  the 
character  of  a  guide  or  a  lumberman.  And  to 
be  able  to  call  the  plants  by  name  makes  them 
a  hundredfold  more  sweet  and  intimate.  Nam 
ing  things  is  one  of  the  oldest  and  simplest  of 
human  pastimes.  Children  play  at  it  with  their 
dolls  and  toy  animals.  In  fact,  it  was  the  first 
game  ever  played  on  earth,  for  the  Creator  who 
planted  the  garden  eastward  in  Eden  knew  well 
what  would  please  the  childish  heart  of  man, 
when  He  brought  all  the  new-made  creatures  to 
Adam,  "  to  see  what  he  would  call  them." 

Our  rustic  bouquet   graced  the  table  under 
the  white-birches,  while  we  sat  by  the  fire  and 
watched  our  four  men  at  the  work  of  the  camp 
—  Joseph  and  Raoul  chopping  wood  in  the  dis 
tance  ;  Fran9ois  slicing  juicy  rashers  from  the 
260 


AT  THE  SIGN  OF  THE  BALSAM  BOUGH 

flitch  of  bacon ;  and  Ferdinand,  the  chef,  heat 
ing  the  frying-pan  in  preparation  for  supper. 

"Have  you  ever  thought,"  said  Greygown, 
in  a  contented  tone  of  voice,  "  that  this  is  the 
only  period  of  our  existence  when  we  attain  to 
the  luxury  of  a  French  cook  ?  " 

"And  one  with  the  grand  manner,  too,"  I 
replied,  "for  he  never  fails  to  ask  what  it  is 
that  madame  desires  to  eat  to-day,  as  if  the  lar 
der  of  Lucullus  were  at  his  disposal,  though  he 
knows  well  enough  that  the  only  choice  lies 
between  broiled  fish  and  fried  fish,  or  bacon 
with  eggs  and  a  rice  omelet.  But  I  like  the  fic 
tion  of  a  lordly  ordering  of  the  repast.  How 
much  better  it  is  than  having  to  eat  what  is 
flung  before  you  at  a  summer  boarding-house  by 
a  scornful  waitress  !  " 

"  Another  thing  that  pleases  me,"  continued 
my  lady,  "  is  the  unbreakableness  of  the  dishes. 
There  are  no  nicks  in  the  edges  of  the  best 
plates  here ;  and,  oh !  it  is  a  happy  thing  to 
have  a  home  without  bric-a-brac.  There  is  no 
thing  here  that  needs  to  be  dusted." 

"And  no  engagements  for  to-morrow,"  I  ejac 
ulated.  "  Dishes  that  can't  be  broken,  and  plans 
that  can  —  that 's  the  ideal  of  housekeeping." 

"  And  then,"  added  my  philosopher  in  skirts, 
"it  is  certainly  refreshing  to  get  away  from  all 
one's  relations  for  a  little  while." 
261 


AT  THE  SIGN  OF  THE  BALSAM  BOUGH 

"  But  how  do  you  make  that  out  ?  "  I  asked, 
in  mild  surprise.  "  What  are  you  going  to  do 
with  me  ?  " 

"  Oh,"  said  she,  with  a  fine  air  of  indepen 
dence,  "  I  don't  count  you.  You  are  not  a  rela 
tion,  only  a  connection  by  marriage." 

"Well,  my  dear,"  I  answered,  between  the 
meditative  puffs  of  my  pipe,  "  it  is  good  to  con 
sider  the  advantages  of  our  present  situation. 
We  shall  soon  come  into  the  frame  of  mind  of 
the  Sultan  of  Morocco  when  he  camped  in  the 
Vale  of  Rabat.  The  place  pleased  him  so  well 
that  he  staid  until  the  very  pegs  of  his  tent  took 
root  and  grew  up  into  a  grove  of  trees  around 
his  pavilion." 

II. 

KENOGAMI. 

The  guides  were  a  little  restless  under  the 
idle  regime  of  our  lazy  camp,  and  urged  us  to 
set  out  upon  some  adventure.  Ferdinand  was 
like  the  uncouth  swain  in  Lycidas.  Sitting 
upon  the  bundles  of  camp  equipage  on  the 
shore,  and  crying,  — 

"To-morrow  to  fresh  woods  and  pastures  new," 

he   led   us   forth   to   seek   the   famous  fishing- 
grounds  on  Lake  Kenogami. 

We  skirted  the  eastern  end  of  Lake  St.  John 
262 


AT  THE  SIGN  OF  THE  BALSAM  BOUGH 

in  our  two  canoes,  and  pushed  up  La  Belle 
Kiviere  to  Hebertville,  where  all  the  children 
turned  out  to  follow  our  procession  through  the 
village.  It  was  like  the  train  that  tagged  after 
the  Pied  Piper  of  Hamelin.  We  embarked 
again,  surrounded  by  an  admiring  throng,  at  the 
bridge  where  the  main  street  crossed  a  little 
stream,  and  paddled  up  it,  through  a  score  of 
back  yards  and  a  stretch  of  reedy  meadows, 
where  the  wild  and  tame  ducks  fed  together, 
tempting  the  sportsman  to  sins  of  ignorance. 
We  crossed  the  placid  Lac  Vert,  and  after  a 
carry  of  a  mile  along  the  highroad  towards  Chi- 
coutimi,  turned  down  a  steep  hill  and  pitched 
our  tents  on  a  crescent  of  silver  sand,  with  the 
long,  fair  water  of  Kenogami  before  us. 

It  is  amazing  to  see  how  quickly  these  woods 
men  can  make  a  camp.  Each  one  knew  pre 
cisely  his  share  of  the  enterprise.  One  sprang 
to  chop  a  dry  spruce  log  into  fuel  for  a  quick 
fire,  and  fell  a  harder  tree  to  keep  us  warm 
through  the  night.  Another  stripped  a  pile  of 
boughs  from  a  balsam  for  the  beds.  Another 
cut  the  tent-poles  from  a  neighbouring  thicket. 
Another  unrolled  the  bundles  and  made  ready 
the  cooking  utensils.  As  if  by  magic,  the  mira 
cle  of  the  camp  was  accomplished.  — 

"  The  bed  was  made,  the  room  was  fit, 
By  punctual  eve  the  stars  were  lit "  — 
263 


AT  THE  SIGN  OF  THE  BALSAM  BOUGH 

but  Greygown  always  insists  upon  completing 
that  quotation  from  Stevenson  in  her  own  voice  ; 
for  this  is  the  way  it  ends,  — 

"  When  we  put  up,  my  ass  and  I, 
At  God's  green  caravanserai." 

Our  permanent  camp  was  another  day's  voy 
age  down  the  lake,  on  a  beach  opposite  the 
Point  Ausable.  There  the  water  was  contracted 
to  a  narrow  strait,  and  in  the  swift  current,  close 
to  the  point,  the  great  trout  had  fixed  their 
spawning-bed  from  time  immemorial.  It  was 
the  first  week  in  September,  and  the  magnates 
of  the  lake  were  already  assembling  —  the  Com 
mon  Councilmen  and  the  Mayor  and  the  whole 
Committee  of  Seventy.  There  were  giants  in 
that  place,  rolling  lazily  about,  and  chasing  each 
other  on  the  surface  of  the  water.  "Look, 
M'sieu' ! "  cried  Francois,  in  excitement,  as  we 
lay  at  anchor  in  the  gray  morning  twilight ; 
"  one  like  a  horse  has  just  leaped  behind  us  ;  I 
assure  you,  big  like  a  horse  !  " 

But  the  fish  were  shy  and  dour.  Old  Caston- 
nier,  the  guardian  of  the  lake,  lived  in  his  hut 
on  the  shore,  and  flogged  the  water,  early  and 
late,  every  day  with  his  home-made  flies.  He 
was  anchored  in  his  dugout  close  beside  us,  and 
grinned  with  delight  as  he  saw  his  over-educated 
trout  refuse  my  best  casts.  "  They  are  here, 
M'sieu',  for  you  can  see  them,"  he  said,  by  way 
264 


AT  THE  SIGN  OF  THE  BALSAM  BOUGH 

of  discouragement,  "  but  it  is  difficult  to  take 
them.  Do  you  not  find  it  so  ?  " 

In  the  back  of  my  fly-book  I  discovered  a 
tiny  phantom  minnow  —  a  dainty  affair  of  var 
nished  silk,  as  light  as  a  feather  —  and  quietly 
attached  it  to  the  leader  in  place  of  the  tail-fly. 
Then  the  fun  began. 

One  after  another  the  big  fish  dashed  at  that 
deception,  and  we  played  and  netted  them, 
until  our  score  was  thirteen,  weighing  alto 
gether  thirty-five  pounds,  and  the  largest  five 
pounds  and  a  half.  The  guardian  was  mystified 
and  disgusted.  He  looked  on  for  a  while  in 
silence,  and  then  pulled  up  anchor  and  clattered 
ashore.  He  must  have  made  some  inquiries 
and  reflections  during  the  day,  for  that  night 
he  paid  a  visit  to  our  camp.  After  telling  bear 
stories  and  fish  stories  for  an  hour  or  two  by 
the  fire,  he  rose  to  depart,  and  tapping  his  fore 
finger  solemnly  upon  my  shoulder,  delivered 
himself  as  follows:  — 

uYou  can  say  a  proud  thing  when  you  go 
home,  M'sieu'  —  that  you  have  beaten  the  old 
Castonnier.  There  are  not  many  fishermen  who 
can  say  that.  But,"  he  added,  with  confidential 
emphasis,  "  detent  votre  sacre  p'tit  poisson  qui  a 
fait  cela." 

That  was  a  touch  of  human  nature,  my  rusty 
old  guardian,  more  welcome  to  me  than  all  the 
265 


AT  THE  SIGN  OF  THE  BALSAM  BOUGH 

morning's  catch.  Is  there  not  always  a  "con 
founded  little  minnow  "  responsible  for  our  fail 
ures?  Did  you  ever  see  a  school-boy  tumble 
on  the  ice  without  stooping  immediately  to  re- 
buckle  the  strap  of  his  skates  ?  And  would  not 
Ignotus  have  painted  a  masterpiece  if  he  could 
have  found  good  brushes  and  a  proper  canvas  ? 
Life's  shortcomings  would  be  bitter  indeed  if  we 
could  not  find  excuses  for  them  outside  of  our 
selves.  And  as  for  life's  successes  —  well,  it  is 
certainly  wholesome  to  remember  how  many  of 
them  are  due  to  a  fortunate  position  and  the 
proper  tools. 

Our  tent  was  on  the  border  of  a  coppice  of 
young  trees.  It  was  pleasant  to  be  awakened 
by  a  convocation  of  birds  at  sunrise,  and  to 
watch  the  shadows  of  the  leaves  dance  out  upon 
our  translucent  roof  of  canvas. 

All  the  birds  in  the  bush  are  early,  but  there 
are  so  many  of  them  that  it  is  difficult  to  be 
lieve  that  every  one  can  be  rewarded  with  a 
worm.  Here  in  Canada  those  little  people  of 
the  air  who  appear  as  transient  guests  of  spring 
and  autumn  in  the  Middle  States,  are  in  their 
summer  home  and  breeding-place.  Warblers, 
named  for  the  magnolia  and  the  myrtle,  chest 
nut-sided,  bay-breasted,  blue-backed,  and  black- 
throated,  flutter  and  creep  along  the  branches 
with  simple  lisping  music.  Kinglets,  ruby- 
266 


AT  THE  SIGN  OF  THE  BALSAM  BOUGH 

crowned  and  golden-crowned,  tiny,  brilliant 
sparks  of  life,  twitter  among  the  trees,  breaking 
occasionally  into  clearer,  sweeter  songs.  Com 
panies  of  redpolls  and  crossbills  pass  chirp 
ing  through  the  thickets,  busily  seeking  their 
food.  The  fearless,  familiar  chickadee  repeats 
his  name  merrily,  while  he  leads  his  family  to 
explore  every  nook  and  cranny  of  the  wood. 
Cedar  wax-wings,  sociable  wanderers,  arrive  in 
numerous  flocks.  The  Canadians  call  them  "  re- 
collets"  because  they  wear  a  brown  crest  of  the 
same  colour  as  the  hoods  of  the  monks  who  came 
with  the  first  settlers  to  New  France.  They  are 
a  songless  tribe,  although  their  quick,  reiterated 
call  as  they  take  to  flight  has  given  them  the 
name  of  chatterers.  The  beautiful  tree-sparrows 
and  the  pine-siskins  are  more  melodious,  and 
the  slate-colored  j  uncos,  flitting  about  the  camp, 
are  as  garrulous  as  chippy-birds.  All  these 
varied  notes  come  and  go  through  the  tangle  of 
morning  dreams.  And  now  the  noisy  blue-jay  is 
calling  "  Thief—  thief —thief  f  "  in  the  distance, 
and  a  pair  of  great  pileated  woodpeckers  with 
crimson  crests  are  laughing  loudly  in  the  swamp 
over  some  family  joke.  But  listen !  what  is 
that  harsh  creaking  note  ?  It  is  the  cry  of  the 
Northern  shrike,  of  whom  tradition  says  that 
he  catches  little  birds  and  impales  them  on 
sharp  thorns.  At  the  sound  of  his  voice  the 
267 


AT  THE  SIGN  OF  THE  BALSAM  BOUGH 

concert  closes  suddenly  and  the  singers  vanish 
into  thin  air.  The  hour  of  music  is  over ;  the 
commonplace  of  day  has  begun.  And  there  is 
my  lady  Greygown,  already  up  and  dressed, 
standing  by  the  breakfast-table  and  laughing  at 
my  belated  appearance. 

But  the  birds  were  not  our  only  musicians  at 
Kenogami.  French  Canada  is  one  of  the  an 
cestral  homes  of  song.  Here  you  can  still  listen 
to  those  quaint  ballads  which  were  sung  cen 
turies  ago  in  Normandie  and  Provence.  "  A 
la  Claire  Fontaine"  "Dans  Paris  y  a-t-une 
Brune  plus  Belle  que  le  Jour"  "Sur  le  Pont 
d? Avignon"  " En  Houlant  ma  Boule"  " La 
Poulette  Grise"  and  a  hundred  other  folk-songs 
linger  among  the  peasants  and  voyageurs  of  these 
northern  woods.  You  may  hear 

"  Malbrouck  s'en  va-t-en  guerre  — 
Mironton,  mironton,  mirontaine," 

and 

"  Isabeau  s'y  promene 
Le  long  de  son  jardin," 

chanted  in  the  farmhouse  or  the  lumber  shanty, 
to  the  tunes  which  have  come  down  from  an  un 
known  source,  and  never  lost  their  echo  in  the 
hearts  of  the  people. 

Our   Ferdinand   was   a   perfect   fountain    of 
music.     He   had  a  clear   tenor   voice,  and   so 
laced  every  task   and   shortened  every  voyage 
268 


AT  THE  SIGN  OF    THE  BALSAM  BOUGH 

with  melody.  "  A  song,  Ferdinand,  a  jolly  song," 
the  other  men  would  say,  as  the  canoes  went 
sweeping  down  the  quiet  lake.  And  then  the 
leader  would  strike  up  a  well-known  air,  and 
his  companions  would  come  in  on  the  refrain, 
keeping  time  with  the  stroke  of  their  paddles. 
Sometimes  it  would  be  a  merry  ditty : 

"  My  father  had  no  girl  but  me, 
And  yet  he  sent  me  off  to  sea ; 
Leap,  my  little  Ce'cilia." 

Or  perhaps  it  was  : 

"  I  've  danced  so  much  the  livelong-  day, — 
Dance,  my  sweetheart,  let 's  be  gay,  — 
I  've  fairly  danced  my  shoes  away,  — 

Till  evening-. 

Dance,  my  pretty,  dance  once  more ; 
Dance,  until  we  break  the  floor." 

But  more  frequently  the  song  was  touched  with 
a  plaintive  pleasant  melancholy.  The  min 
strel  told  how  he  had  gone  into  the  woods  and 
heard  the  nightingale,  and  she  had  confided  to 
him  that  lovers  are  often  unhappy.  The  story 
of  La  Belle  Franqoise  was  repeated  in  minor 
cadences  —  how  her  sweetheart  sailed  away  to 
the  wars,  and  when  he  came  back  the  village 
church  bells  were  ringing,  and  he  said  to  him 
self  that  Franchise  had  been  faithless,  and  the 
chimes  were  for  her  marriage;  but  when  he 
269 


AT  THE  SIGN  OF  THE  BALSAM  BOUGH 

entered  the  church  it  was  her  funeral  that  he 
saw,  for  she  had  died  of  love.  It  is  strange 
how  sorrow  charms  us  when  it  is  distant  and 
visionary.  Even  when  we  are  happiest  we  en 
joy  making  music 

"  Of  old,  unhappy,  far-off  things." 

"What  is  that  song  which  you  are  singing, 
Ferdinand?"  asks  the  lady,  as  she  hears  him 
humming  behind  her  in  the  canoe. 

"  Ah,  madame,  it  is  the  chanson  of  a  young 
man  who  demands  of  his  blonde  why  she  will 
not  marry  him.  He  says  that  he  has  waited 
long  time,  and  the  flowers  are  falling  from  the 
rose-tree,  and  he  is  very  sad." 

"And  does  she  give  a  reason?" 

"Yes,  madame  —  that  is  to  say,  a  reason  of 
a  certain  sort ;  she  declares  that  she  is  not  quite 
ready;  he  must  wait  until  the  rose-tree  adorns 
itself  again." 

"  And  what  is  the  end  —  do  they  get  married 
at  last?" 

"But  I  do  not  know,  madame.  The  chan 
son  does  not  go  so  far.  It  ceases  with  the  com 
plaint  of  the  young  man.  And  it  is  a  very 
uncertain  affair  —  this  affair  of  the  heart  —  is 
it  not  ?  " 

Then,  as  if  he  turned  from  such  perplexing 
mysteries  to  something  plain  and  sure  and  easy 
270 


AT  THE  SIGN  OF  THE  BALSAM  BOUGH 

to  understand,  he  breaks  out  into  the  jolliest  of 
all  Canadian  songs : 

"  My  bark  canoe  that  flies,  that  flies, 
Hola !  my  bark  canoe !  " 

HI. 

THE   ISLAND   POOL. 

Among  the  mountains  there  is  a  gorge.  And 
in  the  gorge  there  is  a  river.  And  in  the  river 
there  is  a  pool.  And  in  the  pool  there  is  an 
island.  And  on  the  island,  for  four  happy  days, 
there  was  a  camp. 

It  was  by  no  means  an  easy  matter  to  estab 
lish  ourselves  in  that  lonely  place.  The  river, 
though  not  remote  from  civilization,  is  practi 
cally  inaccessible  for  nine  miles  of  its  course 
by  reason  of  the  steepness  of  its  banks,  which 
are  long,  shaggy  precipices,  and  the  fury  of 
its  current,  in  which  no  boat  can  live.  We 
heard  its  voice  as  we  approached  through  the 
forest,  and  could  hardly  tell  whether  it  was  far 
away  or  near. 

There  is  a  perspective  of  sound  as  well  as 
of  sight,  and  one  must  have  some  idea  of  the 
size  of  a  noise  before  one  can  judge  of  its 
distance.  A  mosquito's  horn  in  a  dark  room 
may  seem  like  a  trumpet  on  the  battlements; 
and  the  tumult  of  a  mighty  stream  heard 
271 


AT  THE  SIGN  OF  THE  BALSAM  BOUGH 

through,  an  unknown  stretch  of  woods  may  ap 
pear  like  the  babble  of  a  mountain  brook  close 
at  hand. 

But  when  we  came  out  upon  the  bald  fore 
head  of  a  burnt  cliff  and  looked  down,  we  real 
ized  the  grandeur  and  beauty  of  the  unseen 
voice  that  we  had  been  following.  A  river  of 
splendid  strength  went  leaping  through  the 
chasm  five  hundred  feet  below  us,  and  at  the 
foot  of  two  snow-white  falls,  in  an  oval  of  dark 
topaz  water,  traced  with  curves  of  floating  foam, 
lay  the  solitary  island. 

The  broken  path  was  like  a  ladder.  "  How 
shall  we  ever  get  down?  "  sighed  Greygown,  as 
we  dropped  from  rock  to  rock ;  and  at  the  bot 
tom  she  looked  up  sighing,  "  I  know  we  never 
can  get  back  again."  There  was  not  a  foot  of 
ground  on  the  shores  level  enough  for  a  tent. 
Our  canoe  ferried  us  over,  two  at  a  time,  to  the 
island.  It  was  about  a  hundred  paces  long, 
composed  of  round,  coggly  stones,  with  just  one 
patch  of  smooth  sand  at  the  lower  end.  There 
was  not  a  tree  left  upon  it  larger  than  an  alder- 
bush.  The  tent-poles  must  be  cut  far  up  on  the 
mountain-sides,  and  every  bough  for  our  beds 
must  be  carried  down  the  ladder  of  rocks.  But 
the  men  were  gay  at  their  work,  singing  like 
mocking-birds.  After  all,  the  glow  of  life  comes 
from  friction  with  its  difficulties.  If  we  cannot 
272 


AT  THE  SIGN  OF  THE  BALSAM  BOUGH 

find  them  at  home,  we  sally  abroad  and  create 
them,  just  to  warm  up  our  mettle. 

The  ouananiche  in  the  island  pool  were  su 
perb,  astonishing,  incredible.  We  stood  on  the 
cobble-stones  at  the  upper  end,  and  cast  our 
little  flies  across  the  sweeping  stream,  and  for 
three  days  the  fish  came  crowding  in  to  fill  the 
barrel  of  pickled  salmon  for  our  guides'  winter 
use ;  and  the  score  rose,  —  twelve,  twenty-one, 
thirty-two;  and  the  size  of  the  "biggest  fish" 
steadily  mounted  —  four  pounds,  four  and  a 
half,  five,  five  and  three-quarters.  "Precisely 
almost  six  pounds,"  said  Ferdinand,  holding  the 
scales ;  "  but  we  may  call  him  six,  M'sieu',  for  if 
it  had  been  to-morrow  that  we  had  caught  him, 
he  would  certainly  have  gained  the  other  ounce." 
And  yet,  why  should  I  repeat  the  fisherman's 
folly  of  writing  down  the  record  of  that  marvel 
lous  catch  ?  We  always  do  it,  but  we  know  that 
it  is  a  vain  thing.  Few  listen  to  the  tale,  and 
none  accept  it.  Does  not  Christopher  North, 
reviewing  the  Salmonia  of  Sir  Humphry  Davy, 
mock  and  jeer  unfeignedly  at  the  fish  stories  of 
that  most  reputable  writer  ?  But,  on  the  very 
next  page,  old  Christopher  himself  meanders 
on  into  a  perilous  narrative  of  the  day  when  he 
caught  a  whole  cart-load  of  trout  in  a  Highland 
loch.  Incorrigible,  happy  inconsistency !  Slow 
to  believe  others,  and  full  of  skeptical  inquiry, 
273 


AT  THE  SIGN  OF  THE  BALSAM  BOUGH 

fond  man  never  doubts  one  thing  —  that  some 
where  in  the  world  a  tribe  of  gentle  readers  will 
be  discovered  to  whom  his  fish  stories  will  ap 
pear  credible. 

One  of  our  days  on  the  island  was  Sunday  — 
a  day  of  rest  in  a  week  of  idleness.  We  had  a 
few  books;  for  there  are  some  in  existence 
which  will  stand  the  test  of  being  brought  into 
close  contact  with  nature.  Are  not  John  Bur 
roughs'  cheerful,  kindly  essays  full  of  wood 
land  truth  and  companionship?  Can  you  not 
carry  a  whole  library  of  musical  philosophy  in 
your  pocket  in  Matthew  Arnold's  volume  of 
selections  from  Wordsworth?  And  could  there 
be  a  better  sermon  for  a  Sabbath  in  the  wil 
derness  than  Mrs.  Slosson's  immortal  story  of 
FishiTb  Jimmy  ? 

But  to  be  very  frank  about  the  matter,  the 
camp  is  not  stimulating  to  the  studious  side  of 
my  mind.  Charles  Lamb,  as  usual,  has  said 
what  I  feel :  "  I  am  not  much  a  friend  to  out- 
of-doors  reading.  I  cannot  settle  my  spirits 
to  it." 

There  are  blueberries  growing  abundantly 
among  the  rocks  —  huge  clusters  of  them, 
bloomy  and  luscious  as  the  grapes  of  Eshcol. 
The  blueberry  is  nature's  compensation  for  the 
ruin  of  forest  fires.  It  grows  best  where  the 
woods  have  been  burned  away  and  the  soil  is 
274 


AT  THE  SIGN  OF  THE  BALSAM  BOUGH 

too  poor  to  raise  another  crop  of  trees.  Surely 
it  is  an  innocent  and  harmless  pleasure  to  wan 
der  along  the  hillsides  gathering  these  wild 
fruits,  as  the  Master  and  His  disciples  once 
walked  through  the  fields  and  plucked  the  ears 
of  corn,  never  caring  what  the  Pharisees  thought 
of  that  new  way  of  keeping  the  Sabbath. 

And  here  is  a  bed  of  moss  beside  a  dashing 
rivulet,  inviting  us  to  rest  and  be  thankful. 
Hark !  There  is  a  white-throated  sparrow,  on  a 
little  tree  across  the  river,  whistling  his  after 
noon  song 

"  In  linked  sweetness  long  drawn  out." 

Down  in  Maine  they  call  him  the  Peabody-bird, 
because  his  notes  sound  to  them  like  Old  man 

—  Pedbody,  pedbody,  pedbody.     In  New  Bruns 
wick  the  Scotch  settlers  say  that  he  sings  Lost 

—  lost  —  Kennedy,    Kennedy,    kennedy.      But 
here  in  his  northern  home  I  think  we  can  under 
stand  him  better.    He  is  singing  again  and  again, 
with  a  cadence  that  never  wearies,  "  Sweet  — 
sweet  —  Canada,  cdnada,  cdnada!"    The  Can 
adians,  when  they  came  across  the  sea,  remem 
bering  the  nightingale  of  southern  France,  bap 
tized   this  little  gray  minstrel   their  rossignol, 
and  the  country  ballads  are  full  of  his  praise. 
Every  land  has  its  nightingale,  if  we  only  have 
the  heart  to  hear  him.     How  distinct  his  voice 

275 


AT  THE  SIGN  OF  THE  BALSAM  BOUGH 

is  —  how  personal,  how  confidential,  as  if  he  had 
a  message  for  us  ! 

There  is  a  breath  of  fragrance  on  the  cool 
shady  air  beside  our  little  stream,  that  seems  fa 
miliar.  It  is  the  first  week  of  September.  Can 
it  be  that  the  twin-flower  of  June,  the  delicate 
Linncea  borealis,  is  blooming  again  ?  Yes,  here 
is  the  threadlike  stem  lifting  its  two  frail  pink 
bells  above  the  bed  of  shining  leaves.  How 
dear  an  early  flower  seems  when  it  comes  back 
again  and  unfolds  its  beauty  in  a  St.  Martin's 
summer !  How  delicate  and  suggestive  is  the 
faint,  magical  odour !  It  is  like  a  renewal  of  the 
dreams  of  youth. 

"And  need  we  ever  grow  old?"  asked  my 
lady  Greygown,  as  she  sat  that  evening  with  the 
twin-flower  on  her  breast,  watching  the  stars 
come  out  along  the  edge  of  the  cliffs,  and  tremble 
on  the  hurrying  tide  of  the  river.  "  Must  we 
grow  old  as  well  as  grey  ?  Is  the  time  coming 
when  all  life  will  be  commonplace  and  practical, 
and  governed  by  a  dull  '  of  course  '  ?  Shall  we 
not  always  find  adventures  and  romances,  and  a 
few  blossoms  returning,  even  when  the  season 
grows  late  ?  " 

"  At  least,"  I  answered,  "  let  us  believe  in  the 

possibility,  for  to  doubt  it  is  to  destroy  it.     If 

we  can  only  come  back  to  nature  together  every 

year,  and  consider  the  flowers  and  the  birds, 

276 


AT  THE  SIGN  OF  THE  BALSAM  BOUGH 

and  confess  our  faults  and  mistakes  and  our  un 
belief  under  these  silent  stars,  and  hear  the  river 
murmuring  our  absolution,  we  shall  die  young, 
even  though  we  live  long :  we  shall  have  a  treas 
ure  of  memories  which  will  be  like  the  twin- 
flower,  always  a  double  blossom  on  a  single  stem, 
and  carry  with  us  into  the  unseen  world  some 
thing  which  will  make  it  worth  while  to  be  im 
mortal." 

277 


A  SONG  AFTER  SUNDOWN 


THE  WOOD-NOTES   OF  THE  VEERY. 

THE  moonbeams  over  Arno's  vale  in  silver  flood  were 
pouring, 

When  first  I  heard  the  nightingale  a  long-lost  love  de 
ploring  : 

So  passionate,  so  full  of  pain,  it  sounded  strange  and 
eerie, 

I  longed  to  hear  a  simpler  strain,  the  wood-notes  of  the 
veery. 

The   laverock   sings   a  bonny   lay,  above    the    Scottish 

heather, 
It  sprinkles  from  the  dome  of  day  like  light  and  love 

together  ; 
He  drops  the  golden  notes  to  greet  his  brooding  mate,  his 

dearie  ; 
I  only  know  one  song  more  sweet,  the  vespers  of  the 

veery. 

In  English  gardens  green  and  bright,  and  rich  in  fruity 

treasure, 
I  've  heard  the  blackbird  with  delight  repeat  his  merry 

measure  ; 
The  ballad  was  a  lively  one,  the   tune  was  loud  and 

cheery, 

And  yet  with  every  setting  sun  I  listened  for  the  veery. 
281 


THE  WOOD-NOTES  OF  THE  VEERY 

0  far  away,  and  far  away,  the  tawny  thrush  is  singing, 
New  England  woods  at  close  of  day  with  that  clear  chant 

are  ringing  ; 

And  when  my  light  of  life  is  low,  and  heart  and  flesh  are 
weary, 

1  fain  would  hear,  before  I  go,  the  wood-notes  of  the 

veery. 

282 


INDEX 


INDEX 


AFFECTION,  misplaced :  an  instance 
of,  133,  134. 

Altnaharra:  96. 

Alt-Prags,  the  Baths  of :  their  ven 
erable  appearance,  170. 

Ambrose,  of  Milan :  his  compliment 
to  the  Grayling,  238. 

Ampersand :  derivation  of  the  name, 
62 ;  the  mountain,  62 ;  the  lake, 
77  ;  the  river,  62. 

Ananias :  a  point  named  after  him, 
212. 

Anglers  :  the  pretensions  of  rustic, 
exposed,  27  ;  a  group  of,  50,  51 ;  a 
friendly  folk,  123,  124. 

Angling:  its  attractions,  3-5;  an 
education  in,  38  ff. ;  Dr.  Paley's 
attachment  to,  115  ;  a  benefaction 
to  fish,  135. 

Aussee :  227. 

Antinoiis :  the  cause  of  his  death, 
16. 

Architecture :  prevailing  style  on 
the  Restigouche,  123  ;  the  superi 
ority  of  a  tent  to  other  forms  of, 
249 ;  domestic  types  in  Canada, 
200. 

Arnold,  Matthew  :  quoted,  120. 

Baldness:  in  mountains  and  men, 

74. 

Barrie,  J.  M.  :  85. 
Bartlett,  Virgil :    a  tribute  to  his 

memory,  64. 

Bear-stories  :  their  ubiquity,  54. 
Bellinghausen,  von  Munch  :  quoted, 

245. 
Birds :  a  good  way  to  make  their 

acquaintance,  22 ;  differences  in 


character,  23,  24;  a  convocation 
of,  266. 
Birds  named : 

Blackbird,  281. 
Bluebird,  4,  23. 
Cat-bird,  22. 
Cedar-bird,  265. 
Chewink,  4,  23. 
Chickadee,  267. 
Crossbill,  267. 
Crow,  Hoodie,  100. 
Cuckoo,  161. 
Ducks,  "  Betseys,"  192. 
Eagle,  97. 
Grouse,  Ruffed,  71. 
Gull,  192. 
Jay,  Blue,  24,  267. 
Kingfisher,  24,  138,  192. 
Kinglet,     ruby,    and     golden- 
crowned,  266,  267. 
Laverock,  281. 
Meadow-lark,  4. 
Nightingale,  275,  281. 
Oriole,  23. 

Owl,  Great  Horned,  54. 
Pewee,  "Wood,  22. 
Pine-Siskin,  267. 
Redpoll,  267. 
Robin,  3,  23. 
Sand-piper,  Spotted,  22. 
Sheldrake,  68. 
Shrike,  267. 
Sky-lark,  160,  279. 
Sparrow,  Song,  4,  23. 
Sparrow,  Tree,  267. 
Sparrow,  White-throated,   138, 

273. 

Thistle-bird,  4. 
Thrush,  Hermit,  4,  25. 


285 


INDEX 


Thrush,  Wood,  25. 

Thrush,  Wilson's,  25,  280,  281. 

Veery,  25, 280,  281. 

Warbler,  black- throated  green, 

72. 

Warbler,  various  kinds  in  Can 
ada,  264. 
Woodpecker,  28. 
Woodpecker,      Great  -  pileated, 

267. 

Woodpecker,  Red-headed,  71. 

Yellow-throat,  Maryland,  22. 

Bishops  :  the  proper  costume  for, 

27  ;  a  place  frequented  by,  151. 
Black,  William:  his  "Princess  of 

Thule,"  85  ff. 
Black-fly :     his    diabolical   nature, 

206. 

Blackmore,  R.  D.  :  quoted,  33. 
Blunderhead  :  a  winged  idiot,  205. 
Boats :  Adirondack,  67. 
Bonaparte,  Napoleon :  as  a  comrade 

on  foot,  16. 

Bridges,  Roberts  :  quoted,  81. 
Burroughs,     John :    his   views   on 

walking,  59 ;  his  essays,  272. 
Byron,  George,  Lord :    misquoted, 
236. 

Cambridge :  looks  best  from  the 
rear,  19. 

Camping-out :  a  first  experience, 
53-55 ;  lessons  to  be  learned  from 
it,  56 ;  discretion  needed  in,  250  ; 
skill  of  guides  in  preparation  for, 
263. 

Character  :  expressed  in  looks,  13. 

Chub  :  a  mean  fish,  231. 

Cities :  enlivened  by  rivers,  19. 

Conservatism  :  Scotch  style  of,  94. 

Contentment :  an  example  of,  262. 

Conversation :  best  between  two, 
108  ;  the  most  valuable  kind,  110  ; 
egoism  the  salt  of,  133 ;  the  fine 
art  of,  139  ;  current  coin  in,  207. 

Cook  :  the  blessing  of  having  a  good- 
humoured,  193. 


Cortina :  152-164. 

Cotton,  Charles  :  quoted,  239. 

Courtesy :  in  a  custom-house  officer, 
149 ;  among  the  Tyrolese  peas 
ants,  176  ;  of  a  French  Canadian, 
194. 

Cow-boy :  pious  remark  of  a,  30. 

Cowley,  Abraham  :  on  littleness,  16. 

Credulity :  of  anglers  in  regard  to 
their  own  fish-stories,  273. 

Crockett,  S.  R.  :  quoted,  26,  85. 

Darwin,  Charles :  quoted,  28. 
Davy,  Sir  Humphrey  :  quoted,  115. 
Deer-hunting  :  in  the  Adirondacks, 

69. 

Depravity,  total :  in  trout,  102. 
Diogenes :  as  a  bedfellow,  16. 
Dolomites :  described,  145,  146  ff . 
Driving  :  four-in-hand,   147  ;    after 

dinner,  149 ;  the  French  Canadian 

idea  of,  199. 

Economy  :  an  instance  of,  202. 

Education :  a  wise  method  of,  38. 

Education  :  in  a  canoe,  195. 

Edwards,  Jonathan :  his  love  of 
nature,  28. 

Egoism,  modest :  the  salt  of  conver 
sation,  133. 

Epics  :  not  to  be  taken  as  discourage 
ment  to  lyrics,  30. 

Epigrams :  of  small  practical  value, 
110. 

Failures :  the  philosophic  way  of 
accounting  for,  266. 

Fame  :  the  best  kind  of,  155. 

Farming :  demoralized  on  the  Res- 
tigouche,  122. 

Fashion;  unnecessary  for  a  well- 
dressed  woman  to  follow,  158. 

Fatherhood :  the  best  type  of,  38 ; 
its  significance,  195. 

Fiction  :  its  uses,  84,  85,  89. 

Fish :  fact  that  the  largest  always 
escape,  128. 


286 


INDEX 


Flowers  named  : 

Alpenrosen,  144,  160,  177. 

Anemone,  4. 

Arrow-head,  12. 

Asters,  22,  260. 

Bear-berry  (Clintonia  borealis) 
259. 

Bee-balm,  21. 

Blue-bells,  260. 

Canada  May-flower,  259. 

Cardinal  flower,  22. 

Cinquefoil,  21. 

Clover,  160. 

Crowfoot,  21. 

Cyclamen,  191,  242. 

Dahlia,  200. 

Daisy,  ox-eye,  13. 

Dandelion,  4. 

Dwarf  cornel,  259. 

Fireweed,  202. 

Fleur-de-lis,  191,  259. 

Forget-me-not,  160. 

Fuchsia,  100. 

Gentian,  Alpine,  160. 

Gentian,  closed,  22,  215,  260. 

Golden-rod,  22,  259. 

Hare-bell,  21. 

Heather,  17,  83  ft. 

Hepatica,  21. 

Hollyhock,  200. 

Honey-suckle,  96. 

Jewel- weed,  21,  215. 

Joe-Pye  weed,  215. 

Knot-weed,  12. 

Ladies'-tresses,  260. 

Lilac,  35,  258. 

Loose-Strife,  yellow,  21,  259. 

Marigold,  200. 

Meadow-rue,  191. 

Orchis,  purple-fringed,  21,  191, 

260. 

Pansy,  176. 
Partridge-berry,  259. 
Polygala,  fringed,  87. 
Pyrola,  191. 
Rose,  35,  100,  108. 
Santa  Lucia,  160. 


Self-heal,  21. 

Snow-berry,  259. 

Spring-beauty,  21. 

St.  John's-wort,  21. 

Star-grass,  21. 

Tansy,  35. 

Trillium,  painted,  21. 

Tulips,  3. 

Twinflower,  15,  276. 

Turtle-head,  260. 

Twisted-stalk,  259. 

Violet,  21. 

Wake-Robin,  259. 

Flowers  :   Nature's  embroidery,  21, 

159,   191,  259;    the    pleasure    of 

knowing  by  name,  260;    second 

bloom  of,  276. 

Forests  :  the  mid-day  silence  of,  71 ; 

flowers  in,  160,  191,  258-260. 
Friendship:    the  great    not  always 
adapted  for  it,  16;    pleasure  in 
proximity,   13 ;    a  celestial    gift, 
107. 

Gay,  John :  quoted,  9. 

Germans:      their    sentiment,    164; 

their    genius    for    thoroughness, 

167  ;  their  politeness,  240. 
Gilbert,  W.  S.  :  quoted,  37. 
&oat's-milk :  the  proper  way  to 

drink  it,  144 ;   obliging  disposition 

of  the  goat  in  regard  to  it,  178. 
Gray,  Thomas  :  quoted,  24. 

rayling :  described,  238, 239. 

ross-Venediger :  the,  177-180. 

uides  :  Adirondack,  67  ;  Canadian, 

193-196. 

lalleck,  Fitz-Greene  :  quoted,  207. 
Hallstatt :  232. 
Haste  :  the  folly  of,  125. 
Hazlitt,  William  :  quoted,  221. 
leine,  Heinrich  :  quoted,  191. 
Hoosier    Schoolmaster,    the:    the 

solidity  of  his  views,  13. 
lornet :  the  unexpected  quality  of 
his  bite,  70. 


287 


INDEX 


Horse-yacht :  a  description  of,  118  ; 

drawbacks  and  advantages,  125. 
Hospitality  :  in  a  Highland  cottage, 

100 ;  among  anglers,  123 ;  in  an 

Alpine  hut,  178.  , 

Housekeeping :  the  ideal,  261. 
Human  nature  :   best  seen  in  little 

ways,  28  ;  a  touch  of,  265. 
Humour :    American,    difficult    for 

foreigners,  151 ;  plain,  best  enjoyed 

out-of-doors,  189. 

Ideals :  the  advantage  of  cherishing, 

201. 

Idealist :  a  boy  is  the  true,  45. 
Idleness  :    occasionally    profitable, 

30. 
Immortality  :  the  hope  of,  112 ;  love 

makes  it  worth  having,  277. 
Indian  :  the  noble,  207. 
Insects :     classified    according     to 

malignity,  205  ff . 
Ischl,  236. 

James,    Henry:    his    accuracy    in 

words,  27. 
Johnson,       Robert      Underwood  : 

quoted,  21. 

Kenogami,  Lake,  262  ff. 

Lairg,  96. 

Lake  George,  39  ff. 

Lamb,  Charles  :  his  poor  opinion  of 
aqueducts,  12  ;  his  disinclination 
to  reading  out-of-doors,  274. 

Landro,  167,  168. 

Lanier,  Sidney  :  quoted,  25. 

Lienz,  171  ff. 

Life  :  more  in  it  than  making  a  liv 
ing,  31. 

Littleness  :  praised,  16,  17. 

London  :  the  way  to  see,  19. 

Longfellow,  Henry  Wadsworth : 
quoted,  139. 

Love  :  a  boy's  introduction  to,  44 ;  a 
safe  course  in,  86 ;  the  true  mean 


ing  of,  114 ;  uncertainty  of  its 
course,  270. 

Lowell,  James  Russell :  a  reminis 
cence  of  him,  10. 

Luck :  denned,  56. 

Lucretius,  T.  :  quoted,  16. 

Lumbermen  :  their  share  in  making 
our  homes,  220. 

Mabie,  Hamilton  W. :  quoted,  181. 
Maclaren,  Ian, "  85. 

Manners :  their  charm,  when  plain 
and  good,  176. 

Marvell,  Andrew  :  quoted,  190. 

Medicinal  Springs :  an  instance  of 
their  harmlessness,  52. 

Meditation  :  an  aid  to,  137  ;  on  the 
building  of  a  house,  220 ;  at  night 
fall,  242. 

Melvich,  98. 

Memory  :  associated  with  odours, 
35 ;  capricious,  104 ;  awakened  by 
a  word,  183 ;  sweetest  when  shared 
by  two,  277. 

Metapedia,  117. 

Midges  :  animated  pepper,  205. 

Milton,  John  :  quoted,  262,  275. 

Mint:  a  symbol  of  remembrance, 
36. 

Misurina,  Lake,  165. 

Mountains :  their  influence,  10 ;  in 
vitations  to  climb,  63  ;  growth  of 
trees  upon  them,  73,  74;  the 
Adirondacks,  76 ;  the  Dolomites, 
145  ff . ;  the  Hone  Tauern,  173  ff. ; 
of  the  Salzkammergut,  226  ff. 

Mountain-climbing :  charms  of,  70 
ff. ;  moderation  in,  159 ;  disap 
pointment  in,  179,  180. 

Mosquito  :  his  mitigating  qualities, 
206. 

Naaman,  the  Syrian :  his  sentiment 

about  rivers,  15. 
Naming  things  :  pleasure  of,  260. 


Navigable  rivers  :  defined,  53. 
Neu-Prags  :  the  Baths  of,  170. 


288 


INDEX 


Noah :  a  question  about,  140. 
Nuvolau,  Mount,  159  ff . 

Old  Age:  sympathy  with  youth, 
109 ;  the  wisdom  and  beauty  of, 
111,  112  ;  preparation  for,  276. 

Ouananiche,  192,  197,  198,  211,  214, 
215,  254  ff.,  273. 

Oven :  the  shrine  of  the  good  house 
wife,  201. 

Paley,  the  Rev.  Dr.  :  quoted,  115. 

Patience :  not  the  only  virtue,  41 . 

Peasant-life  :  the  perils  of,  in  the 
Tyrol,  174,  175. 

Perch :  a  good  fish  for  nurses  to  catch, 
39. 

Philosophy  :  of  a  happy  life,  111 ;  of 
travel,  143;  of  success,  156;  of 
housekeeping,  260,  261;  of  per 
petual  youth,  276,  277. 

Philosophers  :  a  camp  of,  77  ;  their 
explanation  of  humour,  143. 

Photography :  its  difficulties,  78, 79 ; 
a  good  occupation  for  young 
women,  125. 

Pian,  Mount,  166. 

Pike,  204, 211,  251. 

Pleasures :  simple,  not  to  be  pur 
chased  with  money,  141. 

Plenty  :  a  symbol  of,  64. 

Prayer :  the  secret  of  peace,  112, 
113;  in  a  Tyrolese  hut,  178; 
thoughts  almost  as  good  as,  244. 

Preaching  :  under  supervision,  90. 

Predestination  :  an  instance  of  faith 
in,  99. 

Prime,  W.  C. :  quoted,  251. 

Pronunciation:  courage  in,  121. 

Prosperity  :  should  be  prepared  for 
in  the  time  of  adversity,  201. 

Quarles,  Francis  :  his  emblems,  35. 
Quebec,  247. 


Railway  travel :  beside  a  little  river, 
18 ;  its  general  character,  144. 


Rapids,  187  ff. 

Relations :  the  advantage  of  tempo 
rary  separation  from,  261 ;  dis 
tinguished  from  connections  by 
marriage,  262. 

Religion  :  the  best  evidence  of,  112. 
Resignation :    the  courage  of    old 

age,  111. 

Rivers  :  their  personality,  9, 12  ;  in 
different  countries,  14  ;  little  ones 
the  best,  15-17  ;  methods  of  know 
ing  them,  20,  29;  advantages  of 
their  friendship,  20-26;  their 
small  responsibilities,  29  ;  pleasure 
of  watching  them,  137  ;  variety  of 
life  upon,  198 ;  disconsolate  when 
dry,  209  ;  merry  in  the  ram,  228  ; 
the  voice  of,  271. 
Rivers  named : 

Abana,  15. 

JSsopus,  18. 

Allegash,  17. 

A  1'Ours,  199,  202. 

Amazon,  17. 

Ampersand,  17,  61. 

Arno,  18,  19. 

Aroostook,  17. 

Ausable,  17. 

Batiscan,  14. 

Beaverkill,  17,  21. 

Blanche,  209. 

Boite,  146, 147. 

Boquet,  14. 

Cam,  19. 

Connecticut,  15. 

Dee,  106. 

Delaware,  15. 

Des  Aunes,  199. 

Dove,  17,  63. 

Drau,  171. 

Ericht,  17,  106. 

French  Broad,  18. 

Glommen,  18. 

Grande  De"charge,   186  ff.,  251 
ff. 

Gula,  18. 

Halladale,  17. 


289 


INDEX 


Hudson,  15. 

Isel,  171. 

Kaaterskill,  51,  52. 

La  Belle  Riviere,  185,  263  ff. 

La  Pipe,  185. 

Lycoming,  47. 

Metapedia,  121. 

Mississippi,  17. 

Mistassini,  186. 

Mistook,  193. 

Moose,  17. 

Neversink,  17,  52. 

Niagara,  17. 

Opalescent,  55. 

Ouiatchouan,  185. 

Patapedia,  121. 

Penobscot,  17. 

Peribonca,  17,  186,  216  ff. 

Pharpar,  15. 

Piave,  146,  147. 

Pikouabi,  185. 

Quatawamkedgwick,  121. 

Rauma,  17. 

Racquette,  17. 

Restigouche,  17,  117  ff. 

Rienz,  18,  146. 

Rocky  Run,  48. 

Rotha,  17. 

Saguenay,  185. 

Salzach,  17. 

Saranac,  17,  55,  64. 

Swiftwater,  17,  36,  57. 

Thames,  18,  19. 

Traun,  223  ff. 

Tweed,  18. 

Upsalquitch,  121. 

Wharf  e,  190. 

Ziller,  17. 
Rome:  the  best  point  of  view  in, 

19. 

Roberval,  185. 
Rudder  Grange  :  the  author  of,  13. 

St.  John,  Lake  :  184  ff.,  248  ff. 
Salmon :    a  literary,  92 ;     a  plain, 

130-132 ;    a    delusive,    135,   136  ; 

curious  habit  of  leaping  on  Sunday, 


138  ;  manner  of  angling  for,  129, 
130. 

Sea,  the :  disadvantages  of  loving, 
10. 

Seneca,  L.  Annseus :  his  advice  con 
cerning  altars,  11. 

Semiramis  :  her  husband,  16. 

Seriousness  :  may  be  carried  too  far, 
30. 

Scotch  character  :  contrasted  with 
the  English,  93-95;  caution,  90, 
102  ;  Orthodoxy,  103  ;  true  reli 
gion,  111-113. 

Shakspere,  William  :  quoted,  247. 

Slosson,  Annie  Trumbull :  her  story 
of  Fishin'  Jimmy,  274. 

Solomon :  improved,  38 ;  quoted, 
91. 

Songs,  French,  268  ff . 

Stevenson,  Robert  Louis  :  on  rivers, 
8;  on  friendship  between  young 
and  old,  109  ;  his  last  prayer,  113 ; 
on  camping-out,  264. 

Stornoway,  87  ff . 

Sunday :  reflections  upon,  136,  137  ; 
a  good  way  to  spend,  274,  275. 

Sun-fish :  their  superciliousness 
when  over-fed,  39. 

Tea  :  preferred  to  whiskey,  196. 
Tennyson,   Alfred  :  quoted,  13,  24, 

29,  46,  121,  210. 
Tents :  their  superiority  to  houses, 

247. 
Time,  old  Father  :  the  best  way  to 

get  along  with,  125. 
Titian  :  his  landscapes,  148. 
Toblach,  Lake  of,  168,  169. 
Trees :    their    human    associations, 

10, 11 ;  their  growth  on  mountains, 

73,   74 ;    advisability  of  sparing, 

200  ;  on  their  way  to  market,  220 ; 

their  personality,  251 . 
Trees  named : 

Alder,  48,  202,  226. 

Ash,  226. 

Balm  of  Gilead,  35,  200. 


290 


INDEX 


Balaam,  73,  191,  210,  250,  260. 

Beech,  71. 

Birch,  white,  48, 190,  215, 252  ff. 

Birch,  yellow,  70. 

Cedar,  white,  190,  210,  214. 

Fir,  173,  226,  242. 

Hemlock,    15,    22,  47,  73,  74, 
250. 

Horse-chestnut,  10. 

Larch,  149,  158. 

Maple,  9,  47,  70. 

Oak,  11,  241. 

Pine,  24,  74. 

Poplar,  200,  224. 

Pussywillow,  3,  32. 

Spruce,  15,  73,  74,  190,  208,  210, 

214,  250,  263. 

Trout-fishing  :  a  beginning  at,  41  ;  a 
specimen  of,  65 ;  in  Scotland,  96, 
97,  101,  102;  in  the  Tyrol,  165, 
168 ;  in  the  Traun,  225  ff.  ;  in 
Canada,  126,  203  ff.,  264  ff. 

Universe :  no  man  responsible  for 
the  charge  of  it,  continuously, 
30. 

Utilitarianism  :  a  mistake,  201. 


Venice  :  in  warm  weather,  143, 144. 


Veracity  :  an  effort  to  preserve  it  in 
a  foot-note,  140 ;  affected  by  fish, 
212. 

Virgil :  quoted,  225. 

Walton,  Izaak :  quoted,  29,  32,  66, 
141,  231 ;  his  ill  fortune  as  a  fisher 
man,  139. 

Warner,  Charles  Dudley:  his 
description  of  an  open  fire,  18. 

Watts,  Isaac  :  quoted,  17. 

Whitman,  Walt :  quoted,  214. 

Wilson ,  John  :  his  description  of  a 
bishop,  27  ;  his  skepticism  about 
all  fish  stories  but  hia  own,  273. 

Wish :  a  modest,  3-5. 

Wolfgang,  Saint :  hia  lake,  240 ;  his 
good  taste,  241. 

Women :  prudence  in  expressing  an 
opinion  about,  16  ;  more  conserva 
tive  than  men,  157  ;  problematic 
quality  of,  247 ;  generous  rivals  (in 
angling),  258. 

Words  :  their  magic,  183. 

Wordsworth,  William  :  quoted,  24, 
104,  192,  209. 


Youth  :  the  secret  of  preserving  it, 
276. 


291 


The  Riverside  Press,  Cambridge,  Mass.,  U.  S.  A. 
Electrotyped  and  Printed  by  H.  0.  Houghton  &  Co. 


